him softly.
Six months after that dinner, a plain white envelope appeared in my mailbox with no return address.
Inside was an old color photograph of my mother standing proudly on the Phoenix front porch beside a younger Gwendolyn.
Both women were smiling toward the camera.
On the back, written in my mother’s unmistakable handwriting, were six simple words:
I knew who she was first.
I sat on my terrace holding the photograph for a long time while the sun disappeared behind the mountains.
At last, I understood the full
