Before he could react, a small, rough hand rested gently on his forehead. Instead of fear, he felt warmth—steady and grounding.
She spoke softly about an “old kitchen table” where bread was kneaded and tears were wiped away. The words hit him like a forgotten melody.
That table. He hadn’t thought about it in years. Before the private schools. Before the inheritance. Before he stopped visiting his mother.
Suddenly, heels pounded back across the pavement.
“Get your filthy hands off my husband!” Victoria screamed. Alex heard a body hit the gravel. “Thief! Get away from him!”
“She wasn’t stealing,” Alex said, rising with his cane. “She was talking about… my mother.”
“Your mother passed away three years ago,” Victoria snapped. “We attended the funeral. This child is lying.”
“She’s alive,” the girl said, her voice shaking but brave. “Grandma Eleanor writes to you every week. On pale blue paper. But the lady in red burns the letters.”
Alex felt the air leave his lungs.
Blue paper.
No one knew about that except him and his mother.
“Victoria,” he said slowly, his voice trembling with a rage he had never allowed himself before, “where is my mother?”
“She’s confused! You’re confused! Security—”