Rachel lowered her voice. “When the triplets were six months old, a man came to my building. He said he was from a private charity that helped single mothers.
He knew my name. He knew their birth date. He offered help with rent.”
I went cold. “What did he look like?”
“Tall. Gray hair. Expensive coat. He never gave a card. I refused because it felt strange. A week later, my landlord said someone had paid three months anyway.”
My father had gray hair. My father wore expensive coats. My father believed problems could be solved quietly if enough money changed hands.
I stood and walked to the window because I needed air, but the glass did not open. Below, Philadelphia moved on, indifferent and busy. Buses sighed at the curb.
A cyclist shouted at a cab. Somewhere in the apartment behind me, my possible son laughed at something my possible daughter said.
