He blinked twice quickly, studying the official state stamps before he looked up at Brandon’s face.

“Your mother kept blue hydrangeas on her porch,” Raymond said, his deep voice carrying a gravelly warmth.

“She planted them in three red clay pots the summer you were born.”

Brandon scuffed his work boots against the rug under the table.

“She died when I was four,” Brandon said softly.

“The state social worker never told me her real name.”

“I searched for nine years,” Raymond said.