Sofia stared at me.
Then at Maria.
Then back at me.
Her forehead wrinkled.
“That means you’re my uncle.”
The word struck deeper than Boss ever had.
Uncle.
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
She thought about it for perhaps three seconds.
Then she smiled.
“Okay.”
That was all.
No existential crisis.
No doubt.
No demand for evidence.
Simply okay.
Children were terrifying.
She stepped closer and wrapped both arms around my neck.
“Uncle Daniel.”
I shut my eyes.
Something inside me finally gave way.
I held her.
Gently.
As though she were made of glass.
Behind her, Maria began crying again.
Anthony turned away.
Then Sofia whispered beside my ear.
“Now you don’t have to eat alone.”
I laughed.
And cried.
At the same time.
I would have denied both under oath.
By three in the morning, Sofia was sleeping on the office sofa beneath the same blanket she had placed over me earlier.
Maria sat next to her.
Anthony stood beside the window.
I had read my mother’s letter six times.
There were still far more questions than answers.
Where had she gone after Maria reached adulthood?
How had Gabriel known her?
Why had Gabriel married Maria without telling her?
What exactly happened fourteen years ago?
And what had been inside the missing ledger?
I looked toward Anthony.
“You said there was one more thing.”
Maria groaned softly.
I almost smiled.
“Tell us.”
Anthony turned away from the window.
“Gabriel came to see me four years ago.”
Maria sat up straighter.
“A year before he died.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He was searching for Catherine.”
“My mother?”
Anthony nodded.
“Why?”
“He believed she was still alive.”
Maria stared at him.
“She d!ed five years ago.”
“I know what you believe.”
The sentence seemed to freeze the room.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Anthony walked toward the desk.
“He showed me something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“Of who?”
“Catherine.”
“When?”
“He said it had been taken three months earlier.”
Maria stood.
“No.”
Anthony reached inside his coat again.
This time, he pulled out his phone.
He opened an old photograph and handed it to me.
The image was grainy.
Taken from the opposite side of a street.
A woman stood outside a small café.
Older.
Silver beginning to show in her hair.
But I recognized her immediately.
Even after twenty-eight years.
My mother.
Alive.
My knees nearly gave way.
Maria looked over my shoulder.
