Not a child he'd helped through charity.
His son.
A son born two years after our wedding.
My hands began trembling so violently that the birth certificate slipped onto Mr. Harrison's kitchen table.
I stared at the photograph beside his chair.
The man in the picture was standing beneath a flowering cherry tree with a little girl beside him.
He had dark hair streaked with gray, kind brown eyes, and a crooked smile.
I recognized him.
Not from a family gathering.
Not from an old photograph.
From Thomas's funeral.
He was the quiet man who had stood near the cemetery gates while I struggled to carry a bouquet, my handbag, and Thomas's folded military memorial flag.
He had approached me gently.
“Mrs. Ward, may I help you?”
I had barely looked at him.
I remembered handing him the flowers.
Remembered the way he'd kept a respectful distance while walking me to the car.
