“And you aren’t going back to that tiny room by the river either.” I pulled out the property deed. “I bought a small house in the coastal neighborhood of Tybee Island. It’s not a mansion. It has a yard, a spacious kitchen, two bedrooms, and it’s just a few blocks from the ocean. It’s completely under your name.”
Mr. Raymond recoiled as if I had physically shoved him. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t accept that.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, Louis. This is entirely too much.”
I let out a joyless laugh. “Too much? And selling your own blood for my textbooks wasn’t too much? Eating plain bread so I could wear a clean uniform wasn’t too much? Sleeping sitting up outside the Greyhound station when I left for Georgia Tech wasn’t too much?”
He covered his mouth. “I was just the man tasked with looking after you.”
“No.” I unfolded the third sheet. The proof. The one that had terrified me. “You were my father.”
Mr. Raymond sat completely still. So still that for a moment I thought he hadn’t understood. I placed the paper in his hands. He read the very first line. Then all the color drained from his face.
“No.” His voice came out broken. “This can’t be.”
“It is.”
“Your mother…”
“My mother knew.”
He pressed the document tight against his chest. “No. She would have told me.”
“She wanted to tell you.” I pulled out the letter. That one was truly old, with moisture stains and worn, heavy creases. I had found it in an old biscuit tin where my mother used to keep photos, receipts, and a lock of my baby hair.
Mr. Raymond didn’t take it at first. He was afraid. So was I.
“Read it,” I said.
