In the album was the one photograph I possessed: me at eighteen, holding a small bundle in a hospital room.

You could see only the back of Tobias’s head and one tiny fist.

“He’s tall,” I told her.

“He has Nana’s eyes.”

Lillian pulled up a chair.

“Tell me everything.”

I told her about the cross, the forged letter, the adoptive parents, and Celia Brandt.

At that name she sat forward.