Chapter 2

Jason arrived that night. His flight was delayed, and he didn't get home until eleven. He looked exhausted, his eyes red.

"Mom," he said.

He hugged me tightly. Only then did I realize I was shaking, too.

"What happened? Why did Dad..." Jason asked. He let go of me and glanced toward the study. "What did the police say?"

"It was suicide. It's clear. There's a note," I said. I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the letter. "Read it for yourself."

Jason took the letter and opened it. I watched his face, trying to see if he was surprised, confused, or maybe... something else.

He read it slowly, his lips pressed tightly together. Then he looked up, his eyes looking lost.

"Who's Eleanor?" he asked.

"I want to know, too," I said.

We stared at each other. After thirty years as mother and son, we suddenly felt like strangers. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Neither of us had a clue.

"Mom," Jason said, his voice rough. "This letter... was Dad not himself or something?"

"Lost it?" I said, finishing the word for him. "Was he out of it? Did he mess up?"

He nodded, then shook his head. Jason said, "But this is Dad's handwriting. I'd know it anywhere."

Yeah, we both would. That handwriting, the strength in every stroke, that was Frank. He had written our names for over thirty years, on every birthday card, every holiday greeting. There was no way we would get it wrong.

"Did your dad have any siblings?" I asked. "Any cousins or relatives named Eleanor?"

"Dad was an only child. You know that," Jason replied.

I knew. Frank's parents passed away when he was young, and he had few relatives. When we married, he was alone. He had few friends, just occasional old colleagues. I never heard him mention anyone named Eleanor.

"Mom," Jason called out. He sat down and wiped his face. "Did Dad seem off lately? Anything unusual?"

I thought back. Last week, he visited his parents' graves, gone three days, returned as usual. The day before yesterday, we went to the mall to look at cribs. He was in good spirits and even chatted with the salesperson for quite a while.

Yesterday, he rose early and made breakfast, just as always. After eating, he said he would write in the study. I went grocery shopping. When I returned, the door was still closed. I didn't disturb him.

That evening, I made dinner and called him. He came out, ate, watched TV, and around nine, said he was tired and would go to bed first. I said okay, I would finish watching my show.

Everything seemed normal.

"No," I said. "Everything was normal."

"So this letter..." Jason said, glancing at those lines again. "Let our child walk openly and honorably in the world; does that mean me?"

"Who else could it be?" I said, looking at his face, so much like mine. "You're my son. I carried you all those months and brought you into this world."

"But he wrote our child," Jason said, pointing at the letter. "Does he mean him and Eleanor...?"

"No, you're not," I cut him off sharply. "Jason, you're my son. I gave birth to you at Central General. Mr. Lewis delivered you. Your dad waited all night. You weighed six pounds eight ounces, your cry so loud. I remember every detail clearly."

Jason went quiet, keeping his eyes on the letter for a long time.

"Mom," he finally said. He looked up, tears welling in his eyes. "Why would Dad write something like this?"

I didn't know.

That night, we neither slept. Jason stayed in his old room; I remained in the master. Frank's things lingered: pajamas on the chair, reading glasses, a half-finished book—One Hundred Years of Solitude. He read it, saying he finally understood it now that he was older.

I opened it and found a bookmark. Jason had made it back in elementary school, cardboard, with a shaky drawing of the three of us. On the back, Frank had written in his familiar hand. It read: [Made by my dear son Jason, age eight.]

My son.

My heart clenched.

The next day, we had to start arranging the funeral. Jason went to handle the arrangements, and I stayed home, sorting through Frank's things. The police said we couldn't go into the study yet, so I started going through the rest of the house.

Frank didn't have much. He was always thrifty, just a handful of clothes, but plenty of books. I started with his closet, pulling out his clothes and folding them one by one. At the very bottom of the drawer, I felt something hard.

When I pulled it out, it was an old photo album. The plastic cover was worn, the edges all rubbed white.

I opened it.

The first page was our wedding photo, Frank and me, back in 1988. I wore a dress, and he had on a crisp white shirt. We looked so young, both of us smiling a little shyly. Underneath, Frank had written: [Linda and Frank, wedding memento.]

I kept flipping through. There were snapshots from when Jason was just month old, his first birthday, his first day at kindergarten, and his elementary school graduation. Every photo had the three of us together. It was the classic family album.

When I got to the last few pages, they were empty. But on one page, something was tucked in.

I pulled it out, a tiny black-and-white photo, corners all yellow and worn. The girl in it had long hair, a floral shirt, and the sweetest smile. On the back, the faded handwriting was still clear. It read: [Eleanor, Spring 1975.]

1975.

That was before I even met Frank. Where was he then? Still back home, or had he already moved to the city? He never talked about it.

I stared at the photo. Eleanor. She was a gentle-looking girl with big, expressive eyes and dimples that showed when she smiled. She looked barely in her twenties, maybe even younger.

Who was she?

I kept turning the photo in my hands, but there were no clues, just that faded line on the back. The picture itself was nothing special, probably taken at a studio, with one of those old backdrops painted to look like scenery.

"Mom," Jason called out.

I jumped, almost letting the photo slip from my fingers. Jason was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on what I was holding.

"What's that?" he asked.

I handed it to him. He glanced at the front, then turned it over to check the back.

"Eleanor?" Jason said, looking up at me. "Is this her?"

"I found it in your dad's photo album," I said. "It was tucked away at the very end."

Jason sat down and examined the photo. He said, "1975... Dad would've been twenty-three then. He was a teacher in the county back home."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Dad mentioned it once," Jason said. "After high school, he went back to his hometown and taught at an elementary school for two years. Then, he got accepted to a university and moved away."

I had no idea about any of this. Frank hardly ever talked about his past. Whenever I asked, he just said, "There's nothing to tell. It's all in the past."

"This Eleanor," Jason said, pointing at the photo, "could she have been Dad's..."

"Girlfriend," I said, finishing his thought.

The room fell silent. Girlfriend, first love, or maybe... more than just a first love.

"But even if there was someone," Jason said, "what does that have to do with the letter? My wife, Eleanor...Dad would never use that title lightly. And then he wrote our child..."

He glanced at the photo, then at me, his expression hard to read, a mix of emotions flickering in his eyes.

"Mom," Jason said quietly, "should I... get a paternity test?"

It was like I had been slapped; my face burned with embarrassment and disbelief.

"What are you saying?" I shot back, barely able to believe my ears.

"It's not that I don't believe you," Jason said hurriedly. "But this letter... this photo... Dad must've had a reason for writing all that. If he really thought I was his and Eleanor's kid, then maybe..."

"You're not," I said, my voice shaking as I stood. "Jason, you're my son. I brought you into this world. If you want a paternity test, fine. But your dad hasn't even been gone a day—are you really doing this now?"

Jason fell silent and looked down.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he said quietly. "I just... I don't know what to think. I just need to understand."

We both wanted answers, but how were we supposed to get them? Ask Frank? He was gone, and there was no way he could answer us now.

"Let's just take care of the funeral first," I said. "We can deal with everything else later."

Jason nodded and handed the photo back to me. I held that tiny piece of paper, feeling like it was burning in my hand.