The letter mentioned a baby.
I read the sentence twice.
I still think of her every day.
My throat tightened.
“Dad.”
He turned.
“What baby?”
His expression answered before his words did.
“Your sister.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“I have a sister?”
“Had.”
A coldness opened in me.
“What happened to her?”
Dad sat again.
“She was adopted.”
The sentence landed softly.
That somehow made it worse.
“Why?”
“We were young.”
“You and Mom?”
He nodded.
“Before you were married?”
“Yes.”
I tried to imagine them young.
Dad without gray hair.
Mom before arthritis bent two fingers on her left hand.
Two people whose lives had existed long before mine.
“She got pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“You gave the baby away?”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Your mother did.”
“You didn’t want to?”
“No.”
The word arrived immediately.
Too quickly to misunderstand.
“What happened?”
Dad folded his hands.
“Her parents found out. They sent her away to stay with an aunt. That was what people did sometimes.”
