I don't know how long I cried.
Long enough for my throat to feel scraped raw. Long enough for Alistair's shirt to soak through with tears and snot. Long enough for the wrenching sobs to shrink into hiccups, then fade into shuddering silence.
When I finally pulled back, I couldn't look at him.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, scrubbing at my face with the heels of my hands.
"Don't." His voice was quiet but firm. "Don't apologise for grieving."
I stared down at the photograph still crushed in my fist—creased now, edges bent from how tightly I'd gripped it. The woman with long black hair and hazel eyes smiled up at me. Bright. Alive. One hand resting protectively on her swollen belly.
My real mother.
"Janet wasn't my mother," I said, the words hollow, scraped empty. "She raised me… but I'm not hers."
Alistair stayed silent for a beat. Then: "Did you read the whole letter?"
I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
"Does it name her?"
