His name is Adrian Vale. We met when we were young and both studying music. He wanted to marry me, but I was frightened, proud, and convinced that I would lose Mason if I allowed Adrian’s family into our lives.
I left before Mason was born.
Adrian was told that the baby did not survive.
Henry’s voice faltered.
Mason’s face had gone pale.
“That’s impossible,” he whispered.
Anna rose from her chair, but Mason stepped away when she approached.
Henry continued.
Years later, I learned Adrian had moved to Zurich. I planned to tell him the truth, but each year made the confession more difficult. Then I became ill.
I know silence has consequences.
Please do not tell Mason until you have spoken with Adrian. Let him explain what he knew, what he was told, and whether he wants to be part of Mason’s life.
Mason deserves the choice I took from both of them.
There was one final sentence.
Claire, Adrian still keeps the unfinished song we wrote for our son.
Henry lowered the letter.
The room was so quiet that the ticking clock on Anna’s bookshelf seemed unnaturally loud.
Mason stared at nothing.
“My mother told me he was dead.”
“She may have believed the lie was easier than the truth,” Anna said gently.
“She wrote that she knew where he was.”
“Yes.”
“She had years.”
“Yes.”
Mason walked to the window.
Below, evening lights shimmered along the river.
Henry did not follow him. Claire’s voice remained in his mind.
Listen before you fix.
After a long silence, Mason asked, “Did Claire find him?”
Anna’s expression shifted.
“I believe so.”
Mason turned.
“You believe so?”
“Claire arranged a meeting for this evening.”
“Here?”
Anna nodded.
“She did not tell Adrian that Rachel was his mother’s sister. She told him only that she had information concerning the child he believed he had lost.”
Henry checked the clock.
The meeting time had passed by seven minutes.
“Is he coming?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know.”
