Frank’s cap was still on his head.
He looked at me, then at Claire.
“Mom?”
Mom.
Claire shut her eyes.
“Go upstairs, Eli.”
The boy studied me curiously.
“Who is she?”
“Upstairs. Please.”
He disappeared again.
I turned back to Claire.
“Who is that?”
She said nothing.
“Who is Eli?”
“My son.”
For several seconds, I honestly thought I had heard her wrong.
“Your what?”
“My son.”
I stared toward the stairs.
“You’re telling me Frank had a grandson?”
Claire began crying.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
“How old is he?”
“Twelve.”
I sat down.
Twelve years.
Twelve Christmases.
Twelve birthdays.
For years, I had mailed Claire cards, gifts, invitations, and holiday packages.
Every December, I asked Frank whether we should send something extra.
Every December, he told me Claire preferred keeping things simple.
Apparently, “simple” meant leaving an entire human being out of the story.
I looked at Claire.
