great-recipes.grastyup.com “My uncle once asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’ when I was already 27 years old. From that moment, I started to be afraid of him. And a few days later, when he took me to a hotel outside the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, ‘After the pool, come up to my room…’”

I glanced toward the open doorway.

“You could have told me at home.”

“I know.”

“Then why all the secrecy? Why ask me that disgusting question about my virginity?”

Richard’s expression crumpled.

“I wasn’t asking because I wanted anything from you. I was trying to establish whether you might have a child of your own. Your father left a note saying that the family secret could affect the next generation, but he never explained what he meant. I thought—wrongly—that asking you directly would help me understand.”

“That was none of your business,” I said sharply.

“You’re right. I had no right to ask you that way. I’m sorry.”

For the first time that evening, I believed his apology.

But I wasn’t ready to forgive him.

I picked up the last document.

It was a legal statement, dated three weeks before my father’s death. It contained a name I had never heard before and an address in another city.