Margaret pushed back from the table and walked to the window. Traffic moved below in measured lines. A delivery truck blocked the crosswalk, and a man in a yellow vest waved cars around it.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of birthdays that had never been celebrated. Twenty years of believing she had no living family beyond distant cousins.
“Why was I told she died at the scene?”
“That was the conclusion the police reached.”
“Who confirmed it?”
“The investigator, the medical examiner, and the funeral director.”
“And me.”
“Yes.”
“I saw a closed casket.”
“Yes.”
“Was the body ever independently identified?”
“I’m trying to determine that.”
Margaret turned from the glass. “Do it.”
Arthur closed his folder. “There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Elaine Foster’s records show she adopted Sophie through a private arrangement.”
“Was Sophie adopted as an infant?”
“The records say she was placed with Elaine as a newborn.”
“Who were the birth parents?”
“The papers are sealed.”
“Can they be opened?”
“Only by court order, or by consent.”
“Whose consent?”
“Sophie’s, as an adult.”
Margaret stared at the page. “She doesn’t owe us consent.”
“No.”
“But if she wants the truth, the records may help.”
“Yes.”
“Do we know where she is?”
“Claire left a message for her. She hasn’t called back.”
“Don’t call again.”
Arthur paused. “You want me to stop?”
“I want her to decide whether she wants to continue.”
“That may take time.”
“Then we wait.”
Sophie didn’t call for three days.
Margaret went to the foundation office, attended two meetings, and said very little during both. She declined an invitation to lunch with a senator. She left her phone face up on her desk.
Each time it rang, she looked.
Each time it wasn’t Sophie, she felt relief and disappointment at once.
On the fourth day, Claire entered the office with a folded note.
“She asked to meet,” Claire said.
Margaret stood so quickly her chair rolled back.
“Where?”
“A diner in Brooklyn. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said her aunt found something.”
“Did she say whether she wanted us there?”
“She asked for you and Arthur.”
“Not you?”
“She said I could come if I wanted.”
Margaret looked at the note. “I’ll go.”
The diner sat on a corner near a busy intersection. Its neon sign glowed against the afternoon rain. A row of booths ran beneath a wall of framed photographs.
Margaret arrived early. Arthur came ten minutes later, carrying no briefcase.
Sophie sat in a back booth with a woman in her fifties. The older woman had dark hair streaked with gray and a careful expression.
“This is my aunt, Renee,” Sophie said.
Margaret slid into the seat opposite them. Arthur sat beside her, leaving the end of the booth open.
“Thank you for meeting us,” Margaret said.
Renee didn’t return the greeting. “We don’t know what you’re expecting.”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a billionaire.”
“I know.”
“People like you are used to hearing yes.”
“Then I’ll try to listen to no.”
Renee watched her for several seconds. “That’s easy to say.”
“Yes.”
Sophie placed a small envelope on the table. “My aunt found this in my mother’s storage box.”
“It belonged to Elaine?” Arthur asked.
“She kept it with my birth certificate and some old photographs,” Renee said. “I didn’t know it was there until Sophie asked me to look.”
Sophie touched the envelope. “I haven’t opened it.”
Margaret’s breath caught. “Would you like to?”
“I think so.”
The waitress approached with a pot of coffee. Sophie asked for tea. Renee ordered a sandwich.
Margaret ordered nothing.
Sophie opened the envelope carefully. Inside was a folded letter and a photograph.
The photograph showed a young woman with dark hair standing outside a hospital entrance. She wore a loose sweater and held a bundled infant.
Margaret’s hands began to shake.
The young woman was Evelyn.
“Is that her?” Sophie asked.
Margaret nodded. “Yes.”
“How sure are you?”
“Completely.”
“What’s on the back?”
Sophie turned it over. “It says, ‘Evelyn and Sophie, first afternoon home.’”
Margaret closed her eyes.
Renee unfolded the letter and read the first few lines silently.
“May I?” Margaret asked.
“Not yet,” Renee said.
Margaret lowered her eyes. “Of course.”
Renee read the letter again. Her face changed as she moved down the page.
“What is it?” Sophie asked.
“It’s from Elaine.”
“To whom?”
“To you.”
Sophie took the letter. “Can I read it out loud?”
“If you want.”
She unfolded the paper. Her voice faltered at the first line, then steadied.
“Dear Sophie. If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t tell you everything while I was alive.”
The diner seemed to shrink around them.
