Remembered that he'd looked as though he wanted to say something, but hadn't.
Before leaving, he'd whispered:
“Your husband was a good man.”
I'd thanked him.
Nothing more.
Now I was sitting in a stranger's apartment, holding a birth certificate that suggested that man was my husband's son.
I slowly looked toward Mr. Harrison.
“Who is he?”
His eyes were wet.
“His name is Julian Mercer.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why doesn't he have Thomas's last name?”
“His mother raised him.”
I stared.
“His mother.”
Mr. Harrison nodded.
“Eleanor Mercer.”
The name printed on the birth certificate.
A woman I had never heard of.
A woman who, somehow, had given my husband something I had wanted desperately throughout our marriage.
A child.
I pressed a trembling hand against my chest.
“Was Thomas having an affair?”
Mr. Harrison looked away.
“Margaret—”
“Please don't.”
My voice broke.
“Don't try to spare my feelings. Everyone seems to have spent years deciding what I should and shouldn't know. I'm seventy-two years old. I can handle the truth.”
