“I think I figured something out,” I said. “Daniel volunteered with Leo, right?”
“Daniel?”
“Yes. Mentor, volunteer, something like that.”
There was a pause.
Then she said,
“No.”
One word destroyed the explanation I had spent all night building.
“Then what was he?”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry. I can’t discuss Leo’s historical family records over the phone.”
My stomach tightened.
“Family records?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You basically did.”
“I really can’t tell you more.”
“Did Daniel know Leo’s mother?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Was he related to Leo?”
“I have to end this call.”
Then she hung up.
If Dad hadn’t been Leo’s volunteer, then he had been visiting him for some other reason.
And nobody had ever told me what that reason was.
That evening, I drove directly to Mom’s house.
She opened the door holding a mug.
“You look terrifying.”
“Was Dad married before you?”
Her mug stopped halfway to her mouth.
That was all the answer I needed.
“Oh my God.”
“Sophie…”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
I actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because apparently my father had taken the phrase “It’s complicated” and turned it into an entire lifestyle.
“How did I never know?”
“Your father made me promise not to tell you.”
“And you agreed?”
“He told me his daughter wanted nothing to do with him. Or with his new family. He said if you knew about her, you would go searching for someone who didn’t want to be found.”
“So you believed him?”
“For years.”
Mom looked down.
“I thought I was respecting her wishes.”
“No. You knew she existed. I didn’t.”
Her face tightened.
“By the time I began wondering whether Daniel had told me the full truth, you were older. I was afraid telling you would destroy the way you saw him.”
“So you protected him.”
“I told myself I was protecting you.”
“Were you?”
She stared at her mug.
“No.”
“What was her name?”
Mom hesitated.
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember my sister’s name?”
“I met Daniel years later. He almost never talked about his first family.”
“Where are his old papers?”
“Sophie…”
“Mom. Where?”
She sighed and pointed toward the hallway closet.
We pulled out several old documents.
There it was.
Daniel M.—my father.
Margaret M.—his first wife.
And beneath their names:
Rachel M.
Their daughter.
My sister.
I stopped breathing.
A sister had existed my entire life, and I had never known.
Then an old photograph slipped from behind one of the documents.
A teenage girl smiled at the camera, one eyebrow slightly raised.
“Is that Rachel?”
Mom nodded.
I stared at the picture.
Something about her expression felt strangely familiar.
“Is she alive?”
Mom’s face changed.
“No.”
The answer hit harder than I expected.
“When did she die?”
“Several years ago.”
“How?”
“I don’t know everything. Your father barely talked about it.”
I stared at Rachel’s photograph.
