“Upstairs. Please.”
He disappeared again.
I turned back to Claire.
“Who is that?”
She said nothing.
“Who is Eli?”
“My son.”
For several seconds, I honestly thought I had heard her wrong.
“Your what?”
“My son.”
I stared toward the stairs.
“You’re telling me Frank had a grandson?”
Claire began crying.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
“How old is he?”
“Twelve.”
I sat down.
Twelve years.
Twelve Christmases.
Twelve birthdays.
For years, I had mailed Claire cards, gifts, invitations, and holiday packages.
Every December, I asked Frank whether we should send something extra.
Every December, he told me Claire preferred keeping things simple.
Apparently, “simple” meant leaving an entire human being out of the story.
I looked at Claire.
“Did Frank know?”
Her silence answered before her mouth did.
Something inside me cracked.
“How long?”
“Since Eli was little.”
“How little?”
“Three.”
I pushed up from the chair so quickly it scraped across the floor.
“Nine years?”
“Diane, please.”
