David closed his eyes.
His mother had not merely criticized Maya.
She had studied her fears and used them.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Maya looked at him.
“Don’t apologize for her.”
“I’m apologizing for not noticing.”
She hesitated, then continued.
“When Marisol contacted me, she sent photographs.”
“What kind of photographs?” Daniel asked.
“Old ones.”
Maya reached for her phone. Her hands trembled as she opened a hidden folder.
The first picture showed a much younger Marisol standing beside a man near a harbor. The man’s face was partly turned away, but David recognized him immediately.
Thomas Bennett.
His father.
In the next photograph, Thomas sat at a table holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Maya.
David sank into the chair.
The room blurred for a moment.
He remembered his father as a tall man with careful hands and a patient voice. He remembered Sunday pancakes, baseball games on the radio, and being lifted onto his father’s shoulders during parades.
