The Girls on Rose Hill: Three Generations of Love, Betrayal and Secrets

by Bernadette Walsh

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Women's Fiction; Later in Life Romance; Second Chance Romance

Synopsis

THREE GENERATIONS OF WOMEN; THREE GENERATIONS OF SECRETS

Ellen Murphy spent her childhood in an idyllic house by the sea. A house surrounded by flower filled gardens and a white picket fence. A house she fled at eighteen. A house full of secrets.

When Ellen's mother Rose, an ex-nun, is diagnosed with terminal cancer, Ellen reluctantly returns home to care for her and uncovers a clue to the one secret that has haunted Ellen all her life: the identity of her father. But that is just one of the many secrets hidden behind the beautiful facade of the house on Rose Hill.

"The Girls on Rose Hill is a beautifully written story about the complicated relationship between three generations of women. It will touch you, make you laugh, and make you cry. Bernadette Walsh's subtle use of language, traditions, and manners painted an authentic portrait of an Irish Catholic family. I loved it."

Release date: August 22, 2014

Publisher: Bernadette Walsh

Print pages: 178

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

ROSE

 

The noon sun blinded me and it was all I could do not to turn around and crawl back into bed. I was tired. Bone tired as my mother used to say. I rummaged through the straw basket and found a scratched pair of plastic sunglasses my granddaughter left behind last summer. I grabbed the thin iron railing and made my way down the porch’s steep steps one step at a time, the way my mother had in her last few years. Old. I was getting old. I’d flown up and down these stairs since I was a child but last month I missed the third step and twisted my ankle. Now, like my mother before me, I had to be careful.

I peered through the damaged glasses. My brother’s anchored sailboat bobbed merrily in the high tide. In the distance, several men fished off of the Centershore bridge, their low murmurs carried by a light breeze. One of the men wiped his bald head with a rag. A small bead of sweat trickled down my own brow. Summer used to be my favorite season but this month’s string of ninety degree days had sapped my energy. 

I walked over to the shed, painted the same robin’s egg blue as the house, and hesitated, almost involuntarily, before I stepped inside the dank, termite ridden structure. The sharp tang of fertilizer mixed with kerosene still reminded me of my stepfather. Sixty years on, I could almost see his broad shoulders block the narrow doorway, his thin lips a hard line. I shook my head and forced the image out of my mind. A stepladder lay just inside the shed’s door. I dragged it out into the sun and over to a large lilac bush. Although it was June, a few flowering branches remained. They would make a nice addition to St. Ann’s mid-week altar arrangement. 

“Hello, Rose,” Barbara Conroy said. Blood red lipstick matched her nails. Barbara and her late husband had lived next door for close to forty years. I couldn’t remember the last time our greetings had extended beyond a hello and a weather observation. Yet as a long time neighbor, Barbara’s habits and schedule were as familiar as my own. Barbara carried a tray of sandwiches for her weekly historical society meeting. 

I forced a smile. “Hi, Barbara. Hot enough for you?”

“It’s brutal.” She placed the tray in the back seat of her new silver Mercedes. Since her husband died last spring, Barbara had enjoyed spending all the pennies he’d pinched over their long marriage.

I waved one last time to Barbara and turned my attention to the lilacs. Every Wednesday I freshened the altar’s flower arrangements, although attendance at the daily masses was sparse. Still, Monsignor Ryan appreciated my efforts. 

I wiped my sweaty palms on the faded housedress my daughter tried to throw out last summer and then grabbed the heavy gardening shears out of the straw basket. I climbed to the top of the stepladder and reached for a large unwilted blossom. As I lifted the shears over my head, a sharp pain pierced my skull. The gardening shears fell to the ground. I shouldn’t have gone out in this heat I thought as I climbed down the ladder. I reached the last step when another flash of pain, stronger than the last, ripped through my head. Then darkness. 

********************

Two weeks later I found myself installed in a small single room at St. Francis Hospice.  Invasive brain cancer. No treatment options. No hope. Three months at most. I guess I’ll meet the Lord a little sooner than I’d expected.

“I said, do you want me to put more water in this vase?” my sister-in-law Lisa shouted in my left ear.

“Sorry, yes. That’s fine,” I said, my voice, despite my effort, no louder than a whisper.

“These are pretty. Are they from your garden?” Lisa asked loudly as she walked to the small adjoining bathroom. 

I wanted to tell her I had cancer, I wasn’t deaf. Instead I replied, “Yes. Ellen brought them yesterday.” My daughter, Ellen, had brought offerings from my garden every day since she’d arrived from Washington. If I lived much longer, there won’t be a blade of grass left.

“Well, she certainly didn’t cut them very well, but then Ellen was never one for flowers, was she?” Lisa bustled back into the room and a small stream of water dripped from an overfilled vase. “I can’t believe she’s staying all alone at your place. Paul and I told her she was more than welcome to stay with us. The kids are away at camp this month so there’s plenty of room. But no, she said she wanted to spend time at home. I was surprised to hear her call it that. Home. When was the last time she was back anyway?”

“I don’t remember,” I lied as I looked out the small window next to my bed. The window faced a small courtyard with a statue of Our Lady in the center, surrounded by a bed of day lilies.  A young woman placed a small bouquet of flowers at Our Lady’s feet.

“I don’t think she’s been back twice since Kitty died. I would’ve thought that she considered D.C. her home now. Not like Paul. He’s always loved that old house. He was born there after all,” Lisa added as if I didn’t know.

“So was Ellen.” I looked at the young woman praying in the courtyard, her dark hair a curtain across her face. The bright orange of the day lilies was like fire against her black hair as the blossoms danced in the breeze. I stared at the flowers and an image of my Auntie Margaret’s back yard in Bay Ridge flashed across my damaged brain. 

Margaret’s front yard, like that of her Brooklyn neighbors, consisted of a small postage stamp lawn. All proper and controlled. In the back she’d created a magic garden for me and my cousin Molly. Paths lined with rows of beautiful wildflowers criss-crossed the small yard and bright orange day lilies softened the back fence. We would hide for hours among the flowers. Molly and I crept along the rough wooden fence, orange blossoms caught in our hair, the day my mother and Peter came to take me to the house on Rose Hill.

My hands were covered in dirt and Auntie Margaret tried to rub them clean with a soft handkerchief, her eyes red with tears. My mother stood next to a strange man. He was tall with a large nose and enormous hands. My mother handed him a small suitcase and then hugged me. My grubby fingers stained her pale green dress. “Rosie, I have the best news. You have a new daddy, and we’re going to take you with us to live in a beautiful house by the sea. Isn’t that marvelous? Aren’t you the luckiest girl in the world?”

“Are we going on vacation? Can Molly come too?”

“Of course Molly will visit us. But no, this isn’t a vacation. You’re coming to live with me. With us,” Kitty said, in a bright, chirpy voice.

“But I live here,” I said, bewildered. “I live with Auntie Margaret and Uncle John and Molly and baby Jack.”

“Yes, you did live here. Now you’re going to live with your own mommy and daddy,” Kitty said, her voice hardened as she glared at Auntie Margaret.

I looked at the sour-faced man. “But I don’t know him. I don’t like him!”

The man glanced at his watch as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Tears slid down my cheeks. 

Auntie Margaret took me in her arms. “Hush now, child,” she said in her soft brogue. “There’s no reason to cry. You’ll love your new home with your mammy. And we’ll all come out to visit you soon.”

“Kitty, we need to go,” the man said in a low voice.

Without another word, my mother lifted me up in her arms and carried me out of the yard.  I looked back through my tears. Auntie Margaret crouched down beside my cousin Molly, Margaret’s black hair framed against the fire of the day lilies.

Lisa’s grating voice brought me back to the hospice room. “... and so I offered to send my gardener over to your place, but Ellen wouldn’t hear of it. Really, it’s no problem. After all, she’ll need to get back to Washington, to her job and her family soon I would think, and someone will need to take care of the house. Paul and I would be happy to do it.” Lisa squeezed my thin hand in her plump one.

“Happy to do what?” Ellen asked from the doorway.

“Ellen, I didn’t see you there. I was just telling Rose that our gardener would be happy to take care of Rose’s garden. It’s no problem.”

“This is neither the time nor the place to discuss the garden, Lisa. My mother shouldn’t be bothered with such details,” Ellen said in what I always thought of as her lawyer voice.

“I was only trying to help.” Lisa then turned to me and said in a louder voice, “Rose, you must be tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good bye, Lisa,” I said. “God bless.” 

Lisa was barely out the door when Ellen sat on my bed and said, “God, what a vulture. Could she be more obvious? She and Paul practically live in a mansion and she can’t wait to get her fat mitts on your place. Honestly, I don’t know how Paul can stand her.”

“She means well.”

“You always say that,” Ellen said, irritation lacing her words. “For years you’ve said she means well. What does that even mean? And why does she shout at you?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Because she’s an idiot that’s why. God, let’s stop talking about her. I didn’t come here to bitch about Lisa again.” Ellen walked over to the window.  “It’s a nice, bright room anyway.”

“Yes. It’s got a lovely garden.”

“Maybe if you’re up for it we can go there tomorrow. Oh, and your friend is down there.” Ellen gestured toward the statue of Our Lady.

“I know, it’s a comfort.” I paused and then against my better judgement added, “She could be your friend too, Ellen.”

“It’s a little late for me.” Ellen took in a deep breath, like she always did when she wanted to control her temper. I’d say what I thought was something innocuous and not likely to set her off, Ellen would snap at me, I’d backtrack and take back whatever offensive word escaped my mouth, she’d get more annoyed. We’d danced this dance for years now. Ever since Ellen hit school and realized that it wasn’t normal to live with your grandmother, your uncles and your awkward, ex-nun mother. The house on Rose Hill may have had a white picket fence, but that’s about the only thing about it that was normal. My Ellen spent her childhood keeping up with Joneses in our affluent town, and the Joneses didn’t have mothers like me. Mothers who didn’t come paired with fathers. Mothers who kept secrets from their daughters.

But now that her pathetic excuse for a mother had come down with cancer, the “bad kind” as my mother would say, Ellen had managed to control her temper. For the most part anyway, although her constant tongue-biting was unnerving.

Ellen sat on the chair beside my bed.  Her normally glossy blonde hair showed an inch of gray roots and her high cheekbones were sharper than usual, as if she’d lost weight too quickly. It was strange to see my elegant daughter look anything but perfect. To distract her I asked, “When is Veronica due in?” 

Ellen smiled forth the first time all day. “Tomorrow morning. Her train should be in around eleven. We’ll stop by here in the afternoon.”

“Good.” My eyelids felt like lead. “Good.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

ELLEN

 

The morning breeze was cool. Thank God the heat wave finally broke. One more night in my mother’s sweat box of a house and I swear I’d drown myself in the Long Island Sound. 

The salt-tinged breeze washed over me as I sat on the front porch and drank coffee out of Granny’s favorite red mug. What would Granny Kitty say if she could see me sprawled on her front steps in my wrinkled shorts? She’d probably drag me by hair inside the kitchen, the proper place for drinking coffee, and harass me until I put on something decent. 

But Kitty wasn’t here, nor was Rose, and with only my daughter Veronica with me, I was now the matriarch of the house.  Oddly giddy at the thought, I wondered if there were any other house rules I could break, as though I was thirteen and not forty-three. I savored my strong coffee, so unlike the hospital’s watery concoctions, and watched two young boys from the local yachting club maneuver their sailboat under the Centershore bridge. The briny wind carried he taller one’s little boy curses.

I looked at the diamond watch my husband bought me last year. Only an hour until I was due back at the hospice center and the weeds and flowers weren’t about to pick themselves. I looked at the little boys again. How I wished I could climb into the boat with them and sail away from mother and this old house and the hospital stench that seemed to have become permanently lodged in my nostrils. Unfortunately an escape from this particular unpleasant chapter of my life would not be so easy. 

I picked up the battered gardening basket I’d bought my mother many birthdays ago, walked to the rose bushes that lined the walkway and cut the few remaining intact flowers. My grandmother had told my mother when they had first moved to Centerport that she’d planted the rose bushes in honor of the five-year-old Rose, and that the winding lane, Rose Hill, was named in Rose’s honor. For years my mother believed my grandmother until a neighbor told her old Mrs. Frohller, Kitty’s mother-in-law, had planted the roses long before Rose was born and long before Mrs. Frohller’s son Peter met the pretty Irish widow. Still, as Mrs. Frohller’s rose bushes eventually withered and died, Kitty, and then Rose, replaced them and tended the rose bushes with care.

If my mother and grandmother had each been blessed with a green thumb then I’d been cursed with a black one. In the two weeks my mother’d been at St. Francis, I’d managed to kill three spider plants and the ficus in the hallway didn’t look too healthy. If my mother could see me awkwardly hack at the roses, she’d gently admonish me in that pained way she had whenever someone other than herself handled her treasured flowers. Well, she’s not here to see, I thought grimly. I reached for a large yellow blossom and impaled my thumb on a thorn.

“Shit.” I brought my bleeding thumb to my mouth.

“Are you okay?” My daughter asked in a sleepy voice behind me.

I laughed and turned to face her. “Yeah. I was attacked by a flower.” I arranged my features into the face I usually presented to my children -- that of a cheerful, competent, loving mother -- and smiled. “Are you hungry? I have fruit and yogurt in the kitchen.”

Veronica ran her fingers through her unruly auburn curls. “Oh, Mom, I could really use a bagel.”

I handed her the straw basket. “Okay, you take this inside and I’ll make a bagel run.”

I shook the dirt from my hands before I opened the door of my new silver German sedan. After years of driving squat sexless mini-vans with their three row seats and sensible beverage holders, I’d finally treated myself to one of the sleek expensive cars my husband Brendan favored. With Veronica soon off to NYU and the twins safely tucked away in their top-tier colleges, I no longer needed to cart around hockey skates, lacrosse sticks or gaggles of giggling cheerleaders. When Brendan complained about the price, I told him I’d served my time and deserved some comfort and style. Guilt always opened his wallet.

A half hour later, after she’d convinced me to cook her a full breakfast, Veronica dug into a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. My twenty-year old twin boys, Michael and Timothy, older than Veronica by eighteen months, had inherited my heavy blonde locks but there was no doubt that this red-haired sprite was my daughter. We both shared my grandmother Kitty’s cornflower blue eyes and curvy figure and we both had the wide set eyes and high cheekbones donated by Mr. Mystery, which was how Kitty had always referred to my unknown father.

“More tea?” I asked.

“Please.” Like the Queen of England, Veronica held out her mug while I poured. My Granny always called Veronica a “right little madam” and I supposed she was. My fault, of course. I’d indulged Veronica and used the excuse of  our “girl time” to escape my rowdy sons and inattentive husband -- weekend trips to dance competitions, shopping at Georgetown’s nearby high end boutiques and, of course, our weekly mani-pedi sessions. The housekeeper still made her bed and I wasn’t sure Veronica even knew where the washing machine was. My pampered daughter was in for a rude awakening next year at college.

Ah, who was I kidding? I was the one who’d be in for a rude awakening. After twenty years of the welcome distractions provided by three children, I’d be left alone with an enormous house and an even more enormous emotional gulf between myself and Brendan, who, to be honest, felt more like a slightly annoying roommate than a husband. 

Unaware of my traitorous thoughts about her father, Veronica slipped her tea and stared out the small kitchen window. “Mom, what’s going on back there?”

I’d managed to keep the front garden somewhat in check, but hadn’t touched the backyard which, in this heat, was overrun with weeds. Lisa was right, I did need the help of the gardener to maintain my mother’s horticultural paradise. I could probably use one in the house too since the ficus was clearly on its last leg. However, I’d kill every plant in Centerport rather than admit Lisa was right. Stubborn. I’d always been stubborn, a trait my Granny always said I must’ve inherited from Mr. Mystery rather than my meek mother.

“I know, it’s a mess. Maybe you can help me weed later.”

Veronica made a face. “I thought we were clearing out the master bedroom today.” 

I patted her crimson curls. “That too. Put the dishes in the sink when you’re done and meet me upstairs.”

“Mom,” she whined, “I need a shower.”

I stifled the urge to pinch Veronica on the inside of her arm the way my Granny had always done whenever I was sulky and fresh. I said with more good humor than I felt, “After your shower then,” and then walked out of the kitchen, past the remnants of the ficus in the hallway and up the stairs.

I looked at my watch again. Eleven o’clock. My mother should’ve finished her final dose of chemo by now. Although I offered to accompany her, my mother insisted she only wanted her cousin Molly with her. She used Veronica being here as an excuse, and I didn’t push. I was relieved, to tell the truth. To assuage my guilt, I decided to search through my mother’s belongings and find some photos to hang in her hospice room. 

Even after my grandmother died five years ago, my mother continued to sleep in the same narrow bedroom facing the back garden she’d occupied for most of her sixty-five years. Her bedroom was as neat and spare as I imagine her postulant’s room at Our Lady of Angels convent was so many years earlier. It’s only adornment was a crucifix and a small copy of my wedding portrait.  

Across the hall, the master bedroom was the house’s largest and brightest bedroom, and the only one with a view of Centerport harbor.  About a year after my grandmother died, I made one of my rare trips home and forced my mother to organize Kitty’s clothes and donate what was salvageable to St. Ann’s. I urged my mother to get rid of the rest of Kitty’s things and move into the larger and more comfortable bedroom.  Mother nodded and agreed with me while I was here, but clearly hadn’t been in the room since, except to store a few boxes.  Kitty’s ring, watch and hairbrush sat on the nightstand next to the bed and the room still had a slight scent of Kitty’s musky perfume.

I opened the bottom drawer of a large cherry armoire stuffed with envelopes. My nose twitched from the musty smell. I opened the first envelope and found a letter from my great grandmother Eileen, my namesake. The rest of the letters were from various members of Granny Kitty’s family back in Ireland, although most were from her mother Eileen. I tried the next drawer and came up with a large package. Inside was a letter from my grandmother’s brother, Danny, who had inherited Templeglantin, the family farm in County Kerry. After Eileen’s death Danny returned to Kitty the letters she had written to her mother over the years.

All of this was interesting, but I didn’t think my mother would find these musty old letters particularly uplifting. My mother wasn’t one to linger on the past. I was the one who loved to hear my grandmother’s stories about Ireland. Behind Granny’s back, Mom would roll her eyes. Never to Granny’s face, though. My meek mother wasn’t that brave. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what would cheer my mother up. Her friends from the Rosary Society had plastered her room with enough prayer cards and bloody pictures of the Sacred Heart to cause even the Pope lose his lunch. Her room was already full of flowers. Other than flowers and Jesus, my mother didn’t have too many other interests. At least none that I knew of. Still, I had to try and do something to lift her spirits. God knows our stilted conversations hadn’t cheered her up. After a half hour in each other’s company, she’d stare out the window biting her lip and I’d have a migraine.

I hit pay dirt when I found an old photo album with Margaret O’Connor Sullivan written in faded ink on the inside cover. Margaret died when I was a baby, but I knew how close my mother was to her aunt.

“Find anything?” Veronica asked pleasantly, the shower having improved her mood.

“Mostly old letters. But I did find this album.” I flipped through the pages. “Look, here’s a picture of my grandfather.”

“He was handsome.”

“Kitty always said that Tim Murphy from Monaghan was the most beautiful man she ever saw.” 

Veronica pointed to a picture of Tim with his arms around a petite dark haired woman. “Hey, that’s not Granny Kitty, is it?”

“No, that’s Auntie Margaret.” I turned another page to find Tim and Margaret holding hands on Coney Island.

Veronica idly twisted one of her damp curls around her finger as she lay sprawled across Kitty’s bed. “She looks just like Nana. Those two look very chummy, don’t they?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? He used to be engaged to Auntie Margaret.”

“Get out!” Veronica sat up. “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t? Well, that’s probably because Kitty didn’t like to talk about it, and neither did my mother. I only found out from one of my cousins at a family wedding a few years ago.”

“So you’ve never seen these pictures?” Veronica asked.

“Nope, and I’m surprised Kitty didn’t burn them. She never had anything good to say about Margaret. Here’s a picture of Kitty and Margaret on Kitty’s wedding day.”

“Why is Margaret carrying a bouquet? Oh my God, she wasn’t the bridesmaid, was she?” 

“Apparently.”

“This is better than a soap opera.” Veronica jumped off the bed to get a better look. “How did Kitty wind up with Tim anyway?”

“That was a bit of a scandal. Kitty used to work in a bar.”

“Granny Kitty worked in a bar? Miss ‘tanks tops are not appropriate clothing for young ladies’? Miss ‘red nail polish looks cheap’? I don’t believe you.”

Veronica had only known my grandmother when she was ancient; gnarled with arthritis and, near the end, crippled by dementia. The thought of Granny Kitty serving drinks and flirting with brawny Irishman was obviously a bit shocking to my daughter. I ruffled Veronica’s hair. “Before she became a practical nurse, Kitty was a bar maid. I believe she was very popular.”

“Well, look at her.” Veronica pointed to the wedding picture. “Even in those awful clothes, she was pretty hot.” The faded black and white photo couldn’t hide Kitty’s dazzling wide smile and luscious hour glass figure.

Veronica held up a picture of Tim and Kitty kissing next to a Christmas tree. “Can you believe that these two people produced Nana? I know that sounds mean, and you know how much I love Nana, but come on. These two are smoking and Nana, well, she’s just not.”

“Smoking ornot, your grandmother’s always been very good to you. And we’re supposed to find some happy, uplifting pictures. Pictures of dead people, no matter how hot, are not what your grandmother needs right now. I can’t believe you forgot to bring up my photo albums. Well, anyway, I promised Molly we’d meet her at St. Francis by two, so let’s just do the best we can. You go through those boxes by the window while I try another one of these drawers.”

“Okay,” Veronica said with a dramatic sigh. She clearly wanted to hear more about her great grandparents’ racy love triangle rather than do any work. But, at heart Veronica was a good girl and despite her penchant for heavy sighs and eye rolls, was generally compliant. 

I sifted through the old chest’s drawers and found another of Margaret’s photo albums. This one contained baby photos of her own three children and pictures of Rose from eighteen months to age five. After my grandfather Tim Murphy was crushed by a collapsed brick wall at a building site, Kitty became a live-in practical nurse and worked for wealthy elderly matrons in Manhattan. Since Kitty couldn’t take a baby with her to the sickrooms, she’d left Rose with her sister Margaret, who in the interim had married a widowed police sergeant and was pregnant herself. If Margaret resented being saddled with the child of her former fiance and her flirty sister, it didn’t show in these pictures. There were several faded photos of a very pregnant Margaret holding Rose quite tenderly. Rose shared Margaret’s dark straight hair, small narrow face and pointed chin and looked more like Margaret’s child than the chubby fair haired Molly who was born soon thereafter. I found a picture of Rose, age five, holding Molly’s hand, surrounded by a sea of daffodils. I carefully removed the snapshot from Margaret’s album.

“Any luck?” I asked Veronica.

“Here’s a photo of Nana dressed up like a nun, but it’s weird, it doesn’t look like she’s at a Halloween party.”

“Let me see. I’ve never seen a picture of my mother in her veil.”

“Her veil?”

“Your grandmother spent six months in a convent when she was seventeen.” The photo of a young Rose smiling broadly in her short blue postulant’s veil made me smile myself. My mother looked so happy, even joyful, that her normally pinched features were almost beautiful.

“What other family secrets haven’t you told me?” Veronica scolded. “Am I adopted? Is Dad secretly an alien?”

I laughed and ruffled her hair again. “Your father is many things, but an alien he is not. Nana didn’t really tell me too much about her convent days. Besides it was so long ago, I never thought to tell you. This is such a great photo and I’m sure she hasn’t seen it in a while. Let’s add it to the pile. Did you find anything else?”

“I found her high school graduation picture, but she looks kind of nervous.”

“No, I only want pictures where she’s smiling, happy.”

Veronica sifted through some more photos and then handed me a small, creased photo. “What about this one, Mom? Nana’s smiling and it looks like she’s at a party.”

In the photo Molly and her husband Bobby, dressed in his police cadet’s uniform, stood next to my mother and another young cadet. My mother’s normally straight hair was ratted in a sixties bouffant and she had a full face of makeup. Both of the young men held beers. I flipped the picture over and read the faded scrawl: St. Paddy’s Day, 1966. Me, Bobby, Rosie and Denis.

“St. Patrick’s Day, 1966,” I said. I stared at the picture of the young cadet named Denis. He was blond, with high cheek bones. Very wide set eyes.

“Mom, what is it?”

“Nothing, sweetie. Why don’t you finish getting dressed and then we’ll head over to St. Francis.” 

After Veronica left the room I sat on Kitty’s high four-poster bed. I looked at the photo again, and focused only on the fair, handsome young man. I was born on December 20th, 1966.  “Dear God,” I said aloud, “I think this man is my father.”