I had avoided looking closely at the hospital photograph for days.

In it, my mother stood on a porch holding a baby swaddled in yellow, while Richard, much younger and dressed in uniform, stood beside her.

The handwriting on the back read: Tell Seraphina the truth.

After the trust meeting, I asked Richard to tell me what he knew about the photograph.

He took it from my hand and examined the edges, as though it were something fragile.

Then he said that I had been born during a period when my mother was living apart from my father.