“Open it.”
I lifted the lid.
Inside was a bundle of old letters tied with a faded ribbon and several photographs curled at the corners.
The first photograph was not of David.
It showed his father, a man who had been dead for years, standing beside a young woman I had never seen.
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They were smiling.
Too close.
Too intimate.
“Who is she?”
Grace folded her hands in her lap.
“My mother.”
I turned the photograph over.
A date had been written on the back in David’s father’s handwriting.
Beneath it was one word.
Forgive me.
I looked at Grace.
“Tell me plainly.”
She took a trembling breath.
“David was not my father.”
Relief flashed through me so quickly that I hated myself for it.
Then she continued.
“He was my half-brother.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What did you say?”
“David’s father was also my father.”
I stared at the photograph again.
“My mother met him years ago. He was married. She was much younger. When she became pregnant, he left her to raise me alone.”
“David knew?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Grace’s eyes filled.
“Since before he married you.”
The relief vanished.
“Before our wedding?”
“He found letters after his father became ill. His father admitted everything and made David promise never to tell his mother.”
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