Chapter 6: The Woman from 1997
I showed Daniel the message.
He read it twice.
"Do you know the number?"
"No."
"Don't answer it yet."
But it buzzed again before I could put the phone away.
*My name is Patricia Osman.
Richard told me he was going to tell you the truth before he died.
I need to know if he did.
Please.*
Daniel took the phone from my hand and read it.
"She knows he's gone," he said.
"She must have seen the obituary."
He handed the phone back.
"You don't have to respond."
"I know." I looked at the message.
"But she reached out on the day after his funeral.
She's been waiting to hear something."
"That's not your responsibility."
"No," I agreed.
"It isn't."
I typed back anyway.
*He left me a letter.
I know who you are.
What do you want to tell me?*
Her reply came in under a minute.
*Not over text.
Can we meet?
I'm in town until Thursday.*
Daniel was watching me.
"Mom—"
"I want to hear what she has to say."
"She could make this worse."
"It can't get much worse, Daniel."
He didn't argue.
He just said, "Then I'm coming with you."
We met her the next afternoon at a coffee shop on the far side of town — neutral ground, somewhere none of Richard's friends would be.
Patricia Osman was in her early sixties, with grey-streaked hair and the careful posture of someone who had rehearsed being calm.
She was already seated when we arrived.
A cup of tea in front of her, untouched.
She stood when she saw us.
Her eyes went to Daniel — the dress was gone, but Daniel had worn a soft blouse and kept the earrings — and she didn't flinch.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
We sat.
"Say what you came to say," I told her.
She wrapped both hands around her cup.
"Richard called me eight weeks ago," she said.
"He told me he was dying.
He said he had spent thirty years carrying guilt about what happened between us, and he needed to clear it before he went." She paused.
"He told me he was going to tell you.
He said he owed you the truth."
"He told me in a letter," I said.
"After he was gone."
Something moved across her face.
"I'm sorry.
I think he meant to say it directly.
He may have run out of time."
"Or courage."
"Yes," she said quietly.
"Possibly that too."
"Why are you here, Patricia?"
She looked down at her cup.
"Because he also told me something else during that call.
Something I think you need to know." She looked up.
"Richard didn't end the affair on his own.
I ended it.
And the reason I ended it—" She stopped.
"Go on," I said.
"I ended it because I found out I was pregnant."
The coffee shop noise continued around us.
Someone laughed at another table.
A machine hissed steam.
"I didn't tell Richard," she said.
"I made the decision alone.
I moved away.
I never contacted him again." She took a breath.
"When he called me eight weeks ago, he didn't know.
I told him on that call.
He — it was a very difficult conversation."
My hands were flat on the table.
"The child?" I asked.
"A daughter," Patricia said.
"She's thirty years old.
She lives in Seattle.
She doesn't know who her father is." She reached into her bag and set a photograph on the table between us.
"Her name is Claire."
I looked at the photograph.
And my heart cracked straight down the middle.
Because Claire had Richard's eyes.
The exact same shape.
The exact same color.
There was no question.
None at all.
Daniel reached under the table and found my hand.
"Richard asked me," Patricia said softly, "if I would be willing to let Claire know the truth someday.
He said he couldn't make that decision for me.
But he wanted her to know she had a family, if she wanted one."
She slid the photograph a little closer to me.
"I'm not here to cause pain," she said.
"I'm here because he asked me to come.
And because I think Claire deserves to know."
I looked at the photograph for a long time.
Then I looked at Daniel.
He was watching me with an expression I recognized.
The same one he'd had in the chapel, standing over his father's casket.
Afraid.
Hopeful.
Waiting.
"Does she know you're here?" I asked Patricia.
"No," she said.
"I wanted to speak to you first."
May you like
I picked up the photograph.
"Give me a week," I said.
