Chapter 7: The Call to Seattle
I kept the photograph on the kitchen table for three days.
I didn't hide it.
I didn't turn it face-down.
I just let it sit there while I moved around it — making tea, eating toast, answering the condolence cards that kept arriving in the mail.
People wrote things like *Richard was such a good man* and *your family is in our prayers* and I read each one and set it aside and looked at the photograph of a thirty-year-old woman in Seattle who had Richard's eyes and didn't know his name.
Daniel came by each morning.
He never asked about it directly.
He would make coffee, sit across from me, and let me talk about whatever I wanted to talk about.
Sometimes that was Richard.
Sometimes it was nothing in particular.
On the fourth day, I picked up the photograph and said, "Tell me what you think."
Daniel wrapped both hands around his mug.
"I think she's real regardless of what you decide.
I think she's been living her whole life without knowing half of where she came from.
And I think—" He paused.
"I think if someone knew something important about who I was, I'd want them to tell me."
"Even if it was painful?"
"Especially then."
I set the photograph down.
"What if she's angry?" I said.
"What if she blames me, or blames Richard, or wants nothing to do with any of us?"
"Then that's her right," Daniel said.
"But you won't know until you try."
I called Patricia that afternoon and asked for Claire's number.
Patricia gave it without hesitation.
"She's kind," she said.
"She's going to be shocked.
But she's kind."
I wrote down the number.
Sat with it for another full day.
Then on a Thursday morning, with Daniel sitting across the table from me, I dialed.
It rang three times.
"Hello?"
Her voice was calm and clear.
Younger than I'd expected, though I don't know what I'd expected.
"Claire," I said.
"My name is Joan Calloway.
I was married to a man named Richard Calloway.
I believe — I believe he may have been your father."
Silence.
"Your mother spoke to me earlier this week," I said.
"She gave me your number with your permission, I hope."
"She told me someone might call." Claire's voice had gone careful.
"She didn't tell me when."
"I'm sorry to do this by phone.
I didn't know a better way."
Another silence.
Then: "Is he — is he still alive?"
"No," I said.
"He passed away four days ago.
That's — that's why your mother came to find me.
He asked her to, before he died."
I heard her breath change.
"He knew about me?"
"He found out eight weeks ago.
When he called your mother." I kept my voice steady.
"He didn't know before that.
She made the decision to raise you alone, and she never told him.
He only had a few weeks after he found out, and he — he was very ill by then."
"But he wanted me to know."
"Yes," I said.
"He did."
A long pause.
"I have a half-brother," I said.
"His name is Daniel.
He's — he wants to meet you, if you're ever open to that.
We both do.
But there's no pressure.
None at all.
You can take whatever time you need."
I heard something that might have been a small sound she was trying to contain.
"I've wondered my whole life," she said.
"My mom always said it was complicated.
I stopped asking when I was a teenager." A breath.
"I have his eyes, don't I.
My mom always said I had my father's eyes and then she'd change the subject."
"You do," I said.
"I saw the photograph.
You have his eyes exactly."
Daniel was watching me from across the table.
His own eyes were wet.
"Can I — can I call you back?" Claire said.
"I need a little time to think."
"Of course.
Take all the time you need."
"Joan?" she said, just before I thought she was going to hang up.
"Yes?"
"Thank you for calling me.
May you like
You didn't have to do that."
"Yes I did," I said.
