"Maybe she just wanted to be near you.
Without it being complicated."
"It is complicated."
"I know." She squeezed my hand.
"I know it is."
I looked at the two cups of tea on the table.
The careful way she had set them out.
The six-hour drive she had made fifty-one years ago to bring home a three-week-old baby she had never met.
"I'm not angry at you," I said.
It came out quieter than I expected.
"I want you to know that.
I'm not angry."
She exhaled slowly.
Like she had been holding that breath for a very long time.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
I thought about the letter.
The pale blue stationery.
The smudged ink.
*The way a search goes quiet when it is finally over.*
"I don't know yet," I said.
"But I think I need to go back and talk to Mr.
