That night I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw Adam standing at the funeral, holding that photograph.
By morning I knew one thing.
I needed answers.
So I drove back to the cemetery.
Adam was there.
Standing beside Daniel’s grave.
He looked surprised when he saw me approaching.
“What was Donna to my husband?” I asked immediately.
“And are you Daniel’s son?”
Adam shook his head quickly.
“No.”
I held up the photograph.
“Then explain this.”
He studied the picture for a moment.
Then he looked back at me.
“Please,” he said quietly.
“Let me explain.”
I crossed my arms.
“I’m listening.”
Adam took a breath.
“Daniel wasn’t my father.”
I let out a bitter laugh.
“That’s hard to believe.”
“It’s the truth,” he said. “He was my guardian.”
The word stopped me.
“Your… what?”
“My mom and Daniel were friends in college,” Adam explained. “Her name is Donna. About six years ago, her life fell apart. She became addicted to drugs and couldn’t take care of me anymore.”
The anger inside me wavered.
“She didn’t have anyone else to call,” Adam continued. “So she reached out to Daniel.”
My mind flashed to the Saturdays Daniel always said he spent mentoring kids across town.