We were content.
Then, when Julian was 23, there was another knock at the door.
It was early. I was in my robe, about to make coffee. Harold was in his armchair with the paper.
The knock was calm, not frantic. I almost didn’t hear it.
I opened the door and saw a woman I didn’t recognize. Mid-40s, tidy coat, holding a box.
“I’ve known him for a while.”
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She gave a tight smile.
“You’re Eleanor? Julian’s mother?”
My stomach clenched. “Yes.”
“My name is Marianne,” she said. “I’m your son’s attorney. I’ve known him for a while.”
Attorney.
Harold stood up, confused.
My brain went straight to the worst scenarios.
“Is he okay?” I blurted. “Has there been an accident?”
“He’s physically fine,” she said quickly. “May I come in?”
That “physically” did not reassure me.
I led her to the living room. Harold stood up, confused.
Marianne set the box on the coffee table and looked me in the eye.
The room went quiet.
“This is going to be hard to hear,” she said. “But you need to look at what your son is hiding from you.”
My knees felt weak. I sat down.
“What is that?” Harold asked.
“Documents,” she said. “About Julian. About his biological parents.”
The room went quiet.
“I thought no one ever came forward,” I said.
“Why are you here now?”
“They didn’t,” she said. “Not for him. Not when he needed them. But they did come forward for their money.”
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