One afternoon she stopped in front of the fireplace and pointed to a framed black-and-white photograph on the mantel — a handsome man standing beside a young version of herself.

“Who is he?” she asked.

A lump rose in my throat.

“That’s my father,” I said.

“Robert.” “Where is he?” I could not answer.

“Mariana.” She turned from the photograph and looked at me, and something in her gaze was suddenly very steady.

“What happened to him?” I stood up and I turned the photograph face-down on the mantel.

“That can wait, Mom,” I said, and I heard my own voice shake.