I stared at the photo again. My mother’s face stared back at me, solemn and beautiful.

My knees felt weak. I sat there for hours.

And when I finally rose, I knew I had to ask the one man who might explain the truth.

“Dad,” I said the next morning, holding the photo in my hand, “You knew my mother.”

Mr. Whitaker looked up from his tea. His eyes landed on the photograph, and his expression crumbled.

He slowly placed the teacup down, shaking slightly.