“He died before you were born. Car accident. His mother—your grandmother—she didn’t want anything to do with the situation. So I never told anyone.” Her mother’s eyes were wet but her voice was dry. “I’m telling you now because I’m dying, and I’m tired of being the only one who knew.”
She drove six hours to the small house by the river where her mother had lived alone since the divorce. The lawn was overgrown. The mailbox hung open like a broken mouth.
“You said there was something about my father.”