Diane entered breathlessly.
When she saw me, she stopped.
“No.”
I turned toward her.
“How long?”
She looked at Evan.
“How long have you known he existed?”
Her lips trembled.
“Almost two years.”
I felt as though she had struck me.
“You knew before Paul died?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Evan.
“Were you on the boat?”
He said nothing.
That silence answered me.
“There were two people on the boat,” I whispered.
Diane stepped forward.
“Please sit down.”
“Do not tell me to sit down.”
Evan spoke quietly.
“Paul invited me.”
Their mother had died when the boys were nine.
Their father, unable to care for both of them, sent Paul to live with an aunt and Evan to live with an uncle several hundred miles away.
At first, they exchanged letters.
Then their relatives began fighting over money, inheritance, and blame.
The letters became less frequent.
When Paul was sixteen, he stopped answering altogether.
“I kept writing,” Evan said.
He opened a drawer and placed a bundle of old envelopes on the table.
