My mother, a young woman named Elise, had come to work for Grandma Rose as a live-in caregiver when Grandma Rose’s health had dipped in her mid-60s after Grandpa passed away. Grandma Rose described Mom as bright, gentle, and a little sad around the eyes in a way she’d never thought to question.
Grandma Rose’s letter was four pages long.
Grandma Rose wrote,“When I found Elise’s diary, I understood everything I hadn’t seen. There was a photograph tucked inside the cover, Elise and my nephew Billy, laughing together somewhere I didn’t recognize. And the entry beneath it broke my heart. She wrote: ‘I know I’ve done something wrong in loving him. He’s someone else’s husband. But he doesn’t know about the baby, and now he’s gone abroad, and I don’t know how to carry this alone.’ Elise refused to tell me about the baby’s father, and I didn’t press.”
Billy. My uncle Billy. The man I’d grown up calling uncle, the man who’d bought me a card and $20 for every birthday until he moved back to the city when I was 18.