Chapter 3

The funeral was three days later, simple, just a few people. Frank's old colleagues and a couple of neighbors came. During the service, I stood before his portrait. The photo was taken last year in the park, him in that gray sweater, smiling gently.

The officiant read the eulogy. He said, "Frank was hardworking, honest, a good husband and father." I listened and almost laughed. A good husband? His suicide note said he was unhappy in this marriage. A good father? His last thoughts were for another woman's child.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.

After the service, one of Jason's aunts came over and took my hand. She said, "Linda, I'm so sorry for your loss. Frank's passing was so sudden. You need to take care of yourself."

I nodded, not able to get a word out.

"By the way," she lowered her voice, asking, "did Frank say anything before he passed? You know about that old house back in his hometown, right?"

I froze for a second. Old house? Frank did have a place back home, but after his parents died, it was just left to rot. He always said it wasn't worth anything, so he never cared about it.

"Why are you bringing this up all of a sudden?" I asked.

"I just heard about it," she said, her gaze flickering. "Apparently, someone went to look at the house not long ago. They claimed Frank sent them. I figured you already knew."

I didn't know. Frank never mentioned it to me.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"No idea," she replied, patting my hand. "I'm probably just worrying for nothing. Don't overthink it, just take care of yourself."

After she left, I just stood there. Old house? Did Frank really ask someone to go see the old house?

"Mom," Jason called out. He came over, saying, "It's time to go home."

On the way home, I kept turning things over in my mind. The old house, Eleanor, 1975... What did these pieces add up to, really?

When we got back, I told Jason, "I want to go to your dad's hometown."

"Right now? But the funeral just finished..." Jason said.

"Yes, right now," I said. "I'll take the train and come back today. Are you in?"

Jason met my eyes and nodded. He said, "I'm in. I'll get the car."

Frank's hometown was a small town three hours away. It was a small town that had changed a bit over the years, but the old part of town was still pretty much the same. Jason managed to find the old street from his memory.

The old house sat at the street's end—a small bungalow with a yard. The door was locked, and the lock was all rusted. A neighbor heard the noise and came out; it was an old lady, squinting at us for a long time.

"Who are you looking for?" she asked.

"Ma'am," I said, "this is Frank's house. I'm his wife. We just came back to take a look."

The old lady let out a knowing sound and gave me a once-over. She said, "Frank's wife? He hasn't been back in years. But just recently, someone showed up, said Frank sent him. He had the key and let himself in to check things out."

"Who was it?" I asked.

"Some guy, probably in his forties, wore glasses, looked well-mannered," the old lady said. "Said he was a friend of Frank's, just wanted to see if the place needed fixing up."

"He actually went inside?" I asked.

The lady replied, "Yeah, he did. Stayed for about an hour. Asked me a couple of things, like who used to live here, and if anyone else had come around asking about the house."

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"Frank's parents have been gone for years; the place has just been empty. But years ago..." The old lady paused, "A woman came looking for Frank, ages back. I told her he'd moved to the city and married, and she left right after."

My heart skipped a beat. "What did she look like?"

"That must've been thirty years ago," the old lady said, thinking back. "She looked gentle, dressed plain, spoke real softly. Said she was an old classmate of Frank's, just passing through and wanted to see how he was doing."

"What was her name?" I asked.

"She never said. I asked, but she just left without answering," the old lady said. She glanced at me, then at Jason. "Are you Frank's family? How's he doing? Haven't seen him in ages."

"He..." My throat tightened. "He passed away. Just a few days ago."

The old lady gasped, "What a shame." She went on, "Frank was a good kid, just had tough luck. If his family hadn't run into trouble back then, he and his girl..."

"His girl?" Jason asked. "Ma'am, are you saying my dad had someone before?"

The old lady realized she had said too much and waved it off. She said, "Oh, that's all old news. No use talking about it now. He's not here anymore."

"Ma'am," I said. I stepped forward and took her hand. "Please, this is really important to me. Frank left a letter mentioning someone named Eleanor. Is she the one?"

The old lady looked at me, her expression conflicted. After a long moment, she sighed.

The lady said, "Yes, Eleanor Shaw. They grew up close. But later Frank's family fell into debt, and hers thought him too poor. They forced her to marry someone else. I heard her life wasn't good; her husband beat her, and after a few years..."

"And then?" I asked.

"She was gone," the lady said quietly. "Some said illness, others that she couldn't take it anymore and drank poison. Frank was in college then. When he found out, he spent the whole day at her grave. After that, he never spoke of her again."

I released her hand, feeling ice crawl over my skin.

Eleanor was gone. She died so many years ago.

"Did she..."I asked, my voice shook. "Did she ever have a kid?"

"A kid?" The old lady paused, thinking. She said, "I heard she did, but the baby was sent away soon after birth. Her husband's family wouldn't accept it, accused her of cheating, and said the child wasn't theirs. Such a cruel fate."

A child was sent away.

I looked at Jason. His face was ghostly pale.

"Ma'am," Jason asked, his voice was dry, "was the baby a boy or a girl? When was it born?"

"I don't know. It's all hearsay; who knows what's true?" the old lady said. "Everyone had hard lives. Frank eventually married you, and when we heard you two were doing well, we were genuinely happy for him. At last, he seemed to have some happiness."

Happiness? I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn't move.

"Ma'am," I said, "can we go inside and take a look?"

The old lady fetched a hammer and helped us smash the rusty lock. The door swung open, releasing a wave of musty air. Inside was dark; every piece of furniture draped in cloth, the floor thick with dust.

Jason and I stepped inside, shining flashlights around. A tiny house, just a living room, bedroom, and corner kitchen. Frank spent his first eighteen years here, then left for college, met me, married, had a child, and lived thirty-three more years.

Until three days ago, when he died.

I wandered slowly through the living room, taking in the dusty furniture. An old table, a couple of chairs, and faded posters still clung to the walls. In the bedroom, there was a simple wooden bed and an old-fashioned wardrobe.

I pulled open the wardrobe door. It was mostly empty, just a few old clothes hanging inside. I reached in, feeling around, and at the very back, my fingers brushed against a small wooden box.

I took it out and opened it. Inside were a few odds and ends, a couple of badges, an old fountain pen, and some coupons. There was also a letter, the envelope yellowed with age.

I pulled it out, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold it.

It was Frank's handwriting, but it looked younger, a bit less steady. The date was June 1975.

It read: [Dear Eleanor,

[Seeing your words feels like having you right here with me.

[I got your letter, and I'm so glad to know you're okay. You said your parents are bringing up that marriage again; don't worry, when I come home for summer break, I'll talk to them myself.

[I know I'm broke right now, but I'm working hard. I'm about to take the SAT. Once I get into college and find a job, I'll be able to take care of you.

[Believe me, Eleanor. You're the only one I want in this life. If you end up marrying someone else, I'll stay single forever.

[Wait for me.]

The letter was short, cut off right there. There was no name at the end, but I knew it was from him. In June 1975, he hadn't even taken the SAT yet, and Eleanor's family was already pushing her to get married.

I folded the letter and put it back. Inside the box was also a photo of Frank and Eleanor together, standing by the river, both young, smiling brightly. Frank's arm around her shoulders, she leaned against him, holding a bunch of wildflowers.

On the back of the photo, it read: [With Eleanor, Summer 1974.]

1974. A year later, Eleanor got married. And a year after that, she was gone.

I handed the photo to Jason. He stared at it for a long time, not saying a word.

"So," Jason said quietly, "Eleanor was Dad's first love. She died. She had a kid, but the baby was sent away. Dad believed I was that child."

"Or maybe," I said, gazing at the young Frank in the picture, "he just wished you were."

"Why?" Jason asked, his voice trembling.

"Because you're his son," I said. "But deep down, he never let go of Eleanor. So he imagined you were her child, so he could tell himself his marriage mattered, that he was raising the child he wished he had with Eleanor."

"But I'm your son," Jason said, his voice cracked, louder now. "Mom, I'm your son. How could he do that to you?"

I didn't answer. I walked over to the window and pushed it open, letting the wind rush in. Dust danced in the sunlight.

"Your dad," I said, "was hurting inside his whole life."

"So he could treat you like this?" Jason said, stepping closer. "Mom, he spent thirty-three years with you, and in the end, he left a letter saying his real love was someone else, that this marriage was misery. What did you mean to him?"

I shook my head. I really didn't know. I thought we were husband and wife, partners, family. But to him, I was just a burden, a source of unhappiness, thirty years he simply endured.

"I'm going to find that kid," Jason blurted out.

"What?" I asked.

Jason said, "Eleanor's kid. If they're still around, they'd be about my age. I want to track them down and find out the truth. Maybe Dad was in contact with them all these years, maybe his letter was actually for them."

"And then what?" I asked.

"I don't know," Jason ran a hand over his face. "But I just want to figure it out. Don't you, Mom?"

I did want to know. I wanted to figure out what I had really been living for these thirty-three years. How much of what I thought was our home, our marriage, our love, was actually real?

"Let's find them," I said.