I had spent four years accepting my parents’ explanation of Renata’s adoption because I thought there was nothing left to question.

Now my daughter had been warned that the truth might cost her the only home she knew, and my mother would not tell me who had sent the letter.

I drew a chair up to the table.

Before I broke the seal, I turned the envelope over one last time and studied the file number.

PART 2

The next morning Renata sat at the kitchen table with a pencil beside a piece of toast she had cut into four uneven squares.

“Daddy, where do I put her?”