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“Your father really is connected to what I’ve been hiding.”
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My heart seemed to stop. But she said nothing more.
“I can’t tell you the rest today.”
That night, my father came home and immediately knew something was wrong.
I wouldn’t look him in the eye.
My mother was unusually quiet too.
The next morning, I heard voices coming from their bedroom.
“We’ve hidden this for too long,” my father said.
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“I was ashamed,” my mother whispered.
“You never had anything to be ashamed of.”
A few minutes later, my mother called me into the room.
There was an old wooden box on the table.
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My father stood beside the window.
My mother opened the box.
Inside were old photographs.
The first one had been taken in a hospital.
My mother looked very young.
