One afternoon I finally decided to ask.
The waitress immediately recognized me and discreetly led me to the table where my father was sitting. She then pointed to an old photo hanging on the wall.
In the photo, my parents were still young men. My father stood next to my mother, both smiling at the camera. There was another woman in the photo, but her face had been deliberately blurred over the years.
I looked at him in surprise.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The waitress hesitated for a moment before reaching under the table. She carefully pulled out a small envelope hidden there.
My name was written on the front.
Rachel.
This handwriting undoubtedly belonged to my father.
Before I could open it, a woman with silver hair sitting next to the counter spoke in a low voice:
