We stood in the hallway crying together, comforted by the truth and hurt by it at the same time.
Then Leo asked the question that shattered me.
“What did she look like?”
For 18 years, I had told him almost nothing about his mother.
I had convinced myself that silence was protecting him.
Suddenly, I felt sick.
Goldi had decided I could not handle the truth about her illness.
I had decided Leo could not handle the truth about her.
The same silence had passed from one parent to the other.
“Come with me,” I said.
I took him into the garage.
At the back of an old cabinet sat a sealed plastic box that I had not opened since leaving our previous apartment.
Looking inside had always been too painful.
The box contained photographs of Goldi, notebooks from university, a green scarf she wore every winter, and the silver bracelet I had given her on our first anniversary.
Leo sat beside me on the floor.
I showed him a photograph of Goldi laughing on a beach.
“She hated sand,” I said. “She complained about it all day, but then refused to leave because she wanted to watch the sunset.”
Leo smiled.
Then I showed him our wedding photograph.
“Was she funny?” he asked.
“Very.”
“Could she sing?”
“Terribly.”
“Do I look like her?”
For years, I had refused to search for traces of Goldi in Leo.
Now I could see her everywhere.
The shape of his smile.
The dimple on his left cheek.
The way one eyebrow lifted whenever he was confused.
“Yes,” I told him. “You look very much like her.”
At the bottom of the box, I discovered an old address book.
For years, I told myself I kept it in case I ever decided to search for Goldi.
But I never did.
My anger convinced me there was nothing to gain from finding a woman who had abandoned her child.
Now that I knew the truth, I needed to learn what had happened to her.
Goldi’s mother, Rachel, was listed in the address book.
Goldi and Rachel had been estranged for years. I had only met her twice, and Goldi rarely spoke about their relationship.
Still, I knew I had to contact her.
I stared at the phone for nearly an hour before finally dialing.
A woman answered.
“Is this Rachel?”
