Inside lay a bundle of old envelopes tied with faded blue ribbon, a small conch shell, and a one-way plane ticket to Kingston in Dad’s name, dated for next month. On top sat a photograph of a young woman on a beach, holding a laughing toddler with Dad’s exact dimples. My hands shook as I turned it over. On the back, in careful handwriting, someone had written: “Simone, age two. She still asks about you.”

Mom stood so abruptly that her chair crashed to the floor. “I can explain,” she whispered, tears already falling. “I never meant for you to find out this way.” I looked at the envelopes. Every one was addressed to Dad, and every one had been opened and resealed. “Mom,” I asked quietly, “who is Simone?”