Chapter 4

By the time we got back, night had fallen. Jason dropped me off at home, promising to check things out and let me know the outcome. I walked into the house alone, turned on the lights, and looked at the silent, empty rooms.

Every piece of furniture here was chosen by me. The paintings on the walls, I picked them out with him. The kitchen tiles, I insisted on this color. After thirty-three years, this home is covered in traces of me.

But Frank said he was unfortunate.

I walked into the study. The police had cleared it—everything back in place. On the desk, One Hundred Years of Solitude lay open. It read: [Colonel Aureliano Buendía returned home after years of war, only to find everything no longer the same.]

Frank had written a line in pencil. It read: [He thought of his dead wife, of the life he had never truly had.]

I traced my finger over the words. The life he had never truly had. Was Frank thinking about Eleanor? Was he caught up in that what-if—if Eleanor hadn't died, if he ended up with her, what kind of life would they have had?

The phone rang. It was Jason.

"Mom, I found something," Jason said urgently. "I had a friend check civil records. A boy was sent to the county welfare home around 1976; his mother was Eleanor. Three months later, he was adopted by a couple, both teachers, with the last name Mason."

"And then?" I asked.

Jason replied, "That's where the trail goes cold. The records from back then are incomplete. But my friend said we can keep digging; maybe find out if the Mason family ever moved, or if the boy changed his name."

"How long will it take?" I asked.

"Hard to say, maybe a few days," he said, pausing. "Mom, I also talked to one of Dad's old colleagues. There was a man named Gary Wilde who said Dad really did ask him for a favor not long ago."

"What was it?" I asked.

Jason said, "Dad asked him to help track down someone named Charles Mason. He said Charles was an old friend he'd lost touch with for years, and he wanted to find him."

Charles. I never heard of him before.

"Did Mr. Wilde find him?" I asked.

"Yeah, he did. Charles is living in the next city over and owns a little bookstore. Dad got his contact info," Jason said. "Mom, do you think Charles and his wife could be the couple who adopted Eleanor's child?"

I couldn't say. But it was almost too much of a coincidence.

"Do you have the address?" I asked.

"Yeah, Mr. Wilde gave it to me," Jason said. "I'll go check it out tomorrow. Mom, do you want to come?"

I thought for a moment. "I'll go."

"Okay, I'll pick you up tomorrow morning," Jason said.

After hanging up, I sat in the study, staring at Frank's chair. This was where he spent his last moments, turned on the gas, and wrote that letter. He said he fulfilled his promise, ensuring their child could walk proudly in the world.

If Jason wasn't the child Frank meant, then who was he talking about?

And if Jason was, then who did that make me?

Jason picked me up early. The neighboring city was just over an hour away. Charles's bookstore, Timeless Pages, sat in the old part of town. When we entered, a man in his sixties, wearing reading glasses with graying hair, was organizing shelves.

"Excuse me, are you Charles Mason?" Jason asked.

The man turned around and looked at us. He said, "That's me. And you are..."

"I'm Jason Bennett, and this is my mother, Linda Bennett," Jason said. "We're Frank Bennett's family."

Charles was stunned, and the book in his hand dropped to the floor. "Frank? He..."

"He passed away a few days ago," I said.

Charles's face turned pale. He gripped the bookshelf, needing a moment to steady himself. "C-come in, please sit down," he stammered.

There was a small room at the back of the bookstore with a table and chairs. We sat down, and Charles poured us some coffee, his hands still shaking.

"When did it happen?" he asked.

"Five days ago. He took his own life," I said, locking eyes with him. "Mr. Mason, how did you know my husband?"

Charles was silent for a long time. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Frank and I were classmates in middle school. We hadn't seen each other in years. He suddenly reached out to me not long ago, and I was really surprised," he said, pausing. "He asked me... about my son."

I asked, "Your son?"

"My son, Michael Mason, is thirty-two," Charles replied. "Frank asked how he was doing, his work, and if he was married. I told him everything was good. He was married, wife, expecting. Frank just broke down and cried right there on the phone."

My heart clenched.

"And then?" I asked.

Charles replied, "Then he asked for Michael's photo, so I sent it. He said Michael looked just like someone from his past. Later, he asked if Michael's adoption papers were complete. I told him everything was in order, and he kept repeating, that's good."

The room was quiet. The sound of cars from the street drifted in from outside, distant and muffled.

"Michael," Jason asked, "is he the child you adopted?"

Charles nodded. "We adopted him when he was three months old. His birth mother was Eleanor Shaw; his father was unknown. Frank said he felt guilty; his last wish was for the child to live well. Now knowing Michael's doing well, he's at peace."

Now it all made sense.

Michael was the child, not Jason.

Frank's suicide note was written for Eleanor. When he said our child, he meant Michael. He believed he kept his promise, so Eleanor's child could walk in the world without shame.

But Michael wasn't raised by Frank. It was Charles and his wife who brought him up. Frank only learned, in his final days and through a phone call, that the boy was okay.

Then what was the point of our thirty-three years of marriage?

"Mr. Mason," I asked, "did Frank ever tell you why he only reached out to you now?"

Charles shook his head, saying, "He said he'd been searching for years, but never dared to make contact. He was afraid of disturbing the child's life. It wasn't until recently, when he found out he wasn't well, that he finally decided to get in touch."

"Not well?" I was stunned, asking, "He was always healthy. His check-ups were fine every year."

"He said he had cancer, and it was already in its final stages. He didn't have much time left," Charles said, looking at me. "He didn't tell you?"

I felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over me. Cancer? Final Stages? Frank?

"That's impossible," I said. "He had a check-up just last month. I saw the report; everything was normal."

Charles looked confused, asking, "Why would he say something like that?"

I couldn't understand why Frank would lie to Charles, why he claimed he had cancer.

"Does Michael know any of this?" Jason asked.

"No. Frank told me not to say anything. Knowing the child was well was enough; meeting didn't matter anymore," Charles said. "I remember thinking Frank was always so sentimental. Even after all these years, he still cared so much."

Sentimentality? Sure, he was sentimental about Eleanor and Eleanor's child. But what about me? What about Jason?

"Can I meet Michael?" I asked.

Charles hesitated and then said, "I can ask him, but he doesn't know he's adopted; we've never told him."

"You don't have to tell him anything about that," I said. "Just say I'm the son of Frank's old friend, and I'd like to meet him. No need to mention anything else."

Charles thought it over and agreed. He called Michael, told him that the son of an old friend wanted to meet, and Michael happened to be nearby; he said he would drop by soon.

While waiting for Michael, Charles reminisced. He and Frank had been close middle school desk mates. But after Frank's family crisis, he dropped out for a year. When he returned, he was transformed, barely spoke, and just buried himself in books.

"We all knew about him and Eleanor," Charles said. "They grew up together; everyone assumed they'd marry. But her family forced her to marry someone else. Frank begged them but they threw him out. After that, Eleanor married, Frank buried himself in studies, and left."

"Do you know what happened to Eleanor later?" Jason asked.

Charles said, "Yeah. After Frank went to college, Eleanor visited me once. She was already married, and things weren't well. She asked where Frank was; I told her. She cried, said she was sorry.

"Then she left. Not long after, I heard she had passed away." Charles shook his head. "When Frank found out, he came back, drank all night at my place, just cried. Morning came, he left and never returned."

"What about the child?" Jason asked quietly.

"Eleanor was pregnant before she got married," Charles said, lowering his voice. "The baby was Frank's. But her family was terrified of the scandal, so they tried to force her to have an abortion.

"She wouldn't do it; she had the baby in secret and gave the child up. Frank had no idea. It was only later, after Eleanor died, that her cousin told him. But by then, the child was long gone."

So Frank only learned about the child after Eleanor passed away. He spent years searching, but was too afraid to reach out. It was only recently that he finally contacted Charles and found out the kid was okay.

Did he just marry me because Eleanor was gone and the child was lost? Was I just a convenient replacement?

"Do you know why Frank ended up marrying me?" I asked.

He looked surprised, then shook his head. He said, "I really don't know. When you two got married, he sent me a wedding invitation, but I couldn't make it. Later, I heard you guys were doing alright, and I felt happy for him.

"Frank's life was full of hardship. At least he finally had a home."

Was it really a good thing? Maybe for him, but what about me?

The door swung open, and a man in his early thirties strolled in, dressed casually, with a clean-cut look. Looking closer, I could really see the resemblance to Frank, especially in the eyes.

"Dad," he said, glancing at Charles, "you wanted to see me?"

"Michael, this is Mr. Bennett's family, Linda and Jason," Charles said.

Michael greeted us with a friendly, natural smile. He said Charles had mentioned Frank before, that they were old friends, and he hadn't expected to meet us like this.

I stared at his face, picturing what Frank must've felt seeing it, so much like Eleanor, and so much like himself. This was their child, the child of the woman Frank loved and carried guilt for his whole life.

And then there was Jason, our son, the one Frank raised for more than thirty years. Yet in his final letter, he called him Eleanor's child.

"Michael," I said, "your father is a good man."

Michael smiled and said, "Yeah, he's pretty great. Mrs. Bennett, are you and Mr. Bennett doing alright?"

"He passed away," Jason said.

Michael paused, his face turning serious. He said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," I said. "Your dad really raised you well."

We chatted a bit more, then Michael left. After he went, Charles said, "That day, when Frank heard Michael call me Dad, he started crying and couldn't speak. He said he never heard his own kid call him Dad in his whole life."

A sharp pang stabbed through me. Frank never got to hear Michael call him Dad. But Jason had called him for more than thirty years. Frank always responded, always smiled. Were those smiles genuine, or just an act?