An address had been written in Frank’s shaky handwriting.
The house was less than 20 minutes from the home where he had raised me.
I nearly threw the paper away.
Whatever waited at that address could not matter more than the man dying behind me.
Then I remembered the fear in his eyes.
I nearly threw the paper away.
Not fear of death.
Fear that I would never understand him.
***
I drove through nearly empty streets, gripping the steering wheel until my fingers ached.
By the time I reached the address, I had imagined every possible betrayal.
A secret wife.
A stranger who would tell me Frank had never wanted me.
I had imagined every possible betrayal.
An elderly woman stood on the other side.
She had silver hair, pale blue eyes, and one hand pressed against her mouth.
She stared at me as if she had been waiting for a ghost.
“Rosalie,” she whispered.
I screamed. Not loudly, but sharply enough that she stepped back.
“Who are you?”
An elderly woman stood on the other side.
“My name is Caroline.”
“How do you know me?”
She looked toward the dark street behind me.
“Frank called last month. He could barely speak. He said you might come one day.”
“Might?”
“He hoped he would find the courage to send you.”
“He said you might come one day.”
She opened the door wider.
“I think you should come inside.”
Every instinct told me to return to the hospital.
Instead, I followed her.
“Tell me what Frank lied about.”
Caroline did not answer immediately.
She opened a drawer beside the stove.
“Tell me what Frank lied about.”
Inside was a collection of metal cookie cutters.
Hearts.
Flowers.
Animals.
Apples.
And one small star.
I stopped breathing. It was identical to the cutter Frank had used every Sunday of my childhood.
Inside was a collection of metal cookie cutters.
“Where did you get that?”
