My knees nearly gave way.

“You knew she was alive?”

Dad lowered his eyes.

“I found out six years ago.”

“Six years?” I cried.

“You let me visit an empty grave while my mother was still alive?”

The woman pressed my baby photo against her chest.

“I wrote to you every birthday.

I sent letters, gifts, everything.”

“I never received them.”

Dad’s face turned pale.

“Because your grandmother intercepted every one.”

Before I could speak, the woman pulled a worn envelope from her handbag.

“Then explain this.”

Inside was a document saying she had willingly surrendered me.

At the bottom was her signature—and Dad’s.

“I never signed that,” she whispered.

Dad stared at the page.

“Neither did I.”

Then a familiar voice came from behind us.

“Yes, you did.”

We turned.

My grandmother stood in the doorway, gripping her cane.

She looked directly at me and said, “Your father still hasn’t told you who that woman really is.”

Why had my grandmother hidden the letters—and what was Dad still keeping from me?

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