It was not blank.

There, in plain black type on a certified government record, was a name.

Julian Edward Vance.

My breath stopped in my throat.

The lobby seemed to tilt.

I read the name again, and again, unable to make it connect to the gray gentle man I had pushed through gardens and driven to the sea, unable and then, all at once, horribly, completely able.

I set the certificate down with numb fingers and reached for the stack of photographs, and I lifted the top one into the light, and there she was: my mother, Claire, impossibly young and radiant, her hair loose in the wind, standing on a sunlit wooden pier with both hands resting over the gentle curve of a pregnant belly.