For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Finally, he said, “You have every right to hate me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”
The words hurt him.
I saw it.
Part of me was glad.
“You could have come back,” I continued. “You could have told me the truth when I became an adult.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of Beatrice?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Of what you would see when you looked at me.”
The answer disarmed me.
He reached into his coat and removed a small velvet box.
Inside was a silver compass.
My initials were engraved on the back.
V.A.V.
Vivian Amelia Vale.
“I made it before you were born,” he said. “Your mother chose the initials.”
My throat tightened.
“She used to say you would never be lost as long as you knew your own name.”
