Page 102 of All We Thought We Knew
I didn’t know what to feel.
Desperation? Grief? Anger?
Why had she lied to me all these years? Why was she dying now when I needed her?
Why didn’t Goddosomething?
I needed answers, but none came.
I stood there, silent, confused, exhausted.
Dad approached. “Could you help Nash with chores?” He spoke softly, as though he didn’t want to wake Mama. “I’ll stay until visiting hours end.”
I turned to face him. I wanted to blurt out what Mama told me about Gunther Schneider and demand answers. Demand to know his part in the lie. Or was he a victim of her deception, like me? But now wasn’t the time or place for that conversation.
“Nash and I will take care of things at home. You take care of Mama.” I paused. “And yourself. Eat something.”
“I will,” he promised.
Nash and I spent the rest of the afternoon doing farm chores. The work helped keep my mind occupied, but Mama’s illness and her deception were never far. When the sun began its slow descent, we headed to the house. Jake followed behind, looking as tired as I felt.
“I’ll rustle up something for dinner,” Nash said. “You go rest or take a bath.”
“A soak in the tub does sound good.” I held his gaze. “Thank you, Nash. I don’t think we could get through all this without you.”
He looked thoughtful. “Mark always said I was part of this family. I didn’t believe it, even though your parents made me welcome. But I didn’t think I deserved anything good. I didn’t deserve to belong. At least that’s how I felt back then.”
“And now?”
His expression softened. “Now I know he was right. You and your folksaremy family. I’d do anything to make sure you’re all taken care of.”
His words stayed with me as I sprawled in a tub of hot, sudsy water.
Family.
They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were related by blood. Some weren’t. I didn’t dispute Nash’s belonging here with us. Mark would want his best friend to always feel welcome on the farm.
But what about Dad?
In the past few days, I’d learned that not only was henotrelatedto the Delaney family as I’d always believed, but he also wasn’t even my real father.
I closed my eyes.
Why, Mama? Why did you keep all this secret?
Unless she rallied, I may not ever have an answer to that question or any of the thousand unknowns regarding Dad and Gunther Schneider.
Nash had ham and cheese omelets ready when I came downstairs.
“This looks good,” I said, realizing I hadn’t eaten anything all day. My stomach had been in such tight knots, I hadn’t been hungry.
We ate in silence for a while before Nash said, “Maybe you should read the rest of the letters from Gunther. They might shed some light on the situation.”
I thought of the three remaining envelopes in the shoebox upstairs. When I’d put them away, I’d been confident Gunther Schneider was simply a friend who’d corresponded with Mama during the war.
But now I knew the truth.
He was my biological father.
