She might have been living with her own version of an incomplete story.

I let the rehearsals go for a while and concentrated on the road.

The anger remained.

So did the small, stubborn relief that Timothy was Christopher’s nephew, not a child he had concealed as his son.

I felt ashamed of that relief because it was built around a child’s existence.

Then I reminded myself that being relieved about one explanation did not mean wishing the child away.

It meant I had feared something different.