She was crying again, silently, her arms wrapped around herself, and she would not meet my eyes.

“He knew about her the whole time,” my mother said.

“He followed her life from a distance, the coward’s way.

There are photographs, Bennett.

Letters he never sent.

Records of the payments.

I found them years ago, after he died, in the study.

I have known for six years that your father had a daughter living somewhere out in the world, carrying no name and no family, and I told no one, because I did not know what to do with it, and because I was afraid of what it would mean.