On Wednesday, I call my mom to plan a visit. She excitedly informs me that Phillip and Victoria are going on a father-daughter trip the coming weekend. Despite the synchronicity, this time I have no sense of higher powers colluding, either for me or against me. I respond to the news with equal eagerness; as Claire said, it’s time to find out the truth.

Armed with memories of the last two nights with James, as I board the plane I’m not anxious but coolly determined. I spend the brief flight writing him a letter, in it promising that nothing my mom says will change my heart.

Palo Alto is unsurprisingly warm and sunny. My mom and I spend Saturday doing things we rarely did when I was young—getting massages, manicures, and facials. Our conversations are light, revolving around mundane things like recent movies and books, and what we want for dinner.

At my request, she cooks my favorite homemade lasagna, and we eat on the back deck while the sun is setting. The bottle of wine on the table is mostly gone, and I can see by the softness in her eyes that now’s the time.

It’s time.

“Mom, I need to ask you something about dad.”

My soft words hover in the space between us. I see the moment they sink in—her shoulders stiffen minutely. For the first time, it occurs to me that she knew this day would come.

“Of course, baby. Anything.”

Now that the moment’s upon me, words clog my throat and tangle on the way out. “The locked box in your nightstand, the letters that dad found—was that… did it—”

“Are you asking if I had an affair like Richard thought?”

She doesn’t sound insulted, but tired beyond her years. I nod. “Yes, I am.”

She takes a sip of her wine, then sets the glass down. I watch her fingers twitch and curl around the stem. “You’re back with James Beckett, aren’t you?”

Foreboding shivers down my spine. “Yes. Why does that matter?”

Meeting my eyes, she smiles slightly. “You were my cautious child. My thoughtful, introspective Iris. So perceptive, so sensitive.” Her gaze goes unfocused. “Derrick was the wild one. My risk-taker. My freedom-seeker.”

“Mom?” I ask softly.

She shakes her head a little, eyes refocusing on my face. “When your father and I met, I was in love with someone else. But love’s a funny thing—I fell in love with Richard, too. Can one love eclipse another? It certainly felt that way. When I was with Richard, the world was brighter. Everything was clearer, more vibrant. Poetic. I loved him because I didn’t have a choice. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

She nods. “Having met James, I think you truly do. They are very similar, you know. Minds like razors, smooth as silk and at the same time so sharp that when you’re cut, you don’t feel pain at first. Richard, as you know, was mercurial to a fault. A hopeless romantic who wanted a family more than anything. But he was also a narcissist and struggled with feeling like he couldn’t love both his family and poetry. He felt that whichever passion he chose at any given time, an equally vital piece of his life was being smothered.”

I have no idea where she’s going, but from her wistful tone it’s nowhere I’ve considered. The thought doesn’t comfort—it scratches at the surface of my buried fears, bringing them alive.

She finishes her wine in two long swallows. The glass hits the table with a dissonant clank.

“Something not many people know about your father was that he believed strongly—profoundly—in the sanctity of life. He also wanted a large family. At least five kids, as he often told me. But there was a disparity, obviously, between his fantasy and reality. I was raising you and Derrick virtually alone. When Richard chose us, was emotionally present for us, he was magnificent. A perfect partner and father. When he chose poetry…” She shrugs.

“I remember,” I say mutedly.

And I do, primarily the inconsistency. The not knowing if the man walking in the door at night would be my dad or a stranger with his face. One who didn’t want hugs and kisses and bedtime stories, but who disappeared into his study for hours at a time.

With a sigh, she tells me the rest.

“That weekend I disappeared, I went to Los Angeles to visit a female friend from college. She went with me to a clinic so I could get an abortion.”

My breath stalls. For a few moments, my mind is blank with shock. Definitely not an avenue I’d considered.

At length, I ask, “Will you tell me why?”

“I was in a dark place, barely able to care for myself while trying not to fuck up you and Derrick.”

“You were—are—a great mom,” I say firmly.

She smiles sadly. “I tried. But when I found out I was pregnant, that my birth control had failed, I couldn’t fathom another child. Not with our marriage beginning to fall apart, with his absences on tours and speaking engagements growing more frequent and longer. So many times, Richard promised to be more present, to stay invested, but he couldn’t.” She shrugs a shoulder. “He tried. He really did. But he just couldn’t do it.”

Tears fill my eyes and I reach for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, mom. I’m so sorry. That must have been so lonely for you.”

“Yes, it was. And believe me, Iris, I didn’t want to deprive you or Derrick of a sibling. I honestly didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” I ask at length.

She sniffles, releasing my hand to wipe at her eyes. “I was young and afraid. As progressive as he was on some counts, Richard didn’t believe in abortion. In my darkness and confusion, I thought he’d feel my decision was more of a betrayal than infidelity.” She sobs quietly, stifling it with her arm. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder if things would have turned out differently had I just told him. For all of us.”

I know she means Derrick, and to lesser extent me. What if a third child had changed my father? What if he’d become the positive, loving presence we’d once known? Would that night have happened? Would I have sought love from someone who ultimately took advantage of me? Would I have been raped, and would Derrick have died?

What if, what if?

“I’m sorry, Iris,” whispers my mother.

As I look at her, I feel no resentment. Only sympathy for her pain. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, mom. But can I ask another question?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you keep the letters from your high-school sweetheart?”

“If my love for your father was a summer thunderstorm, my love for Phillip was a steady spring rain. It was often overshadowed by the beauty of lightning, but in the end it lasted longer.”

“Phillip?” I echo in shock. “The Phillip? My stepfather?”

She nods. “I never wrote him back while I was married to your father. It’s important to me that you know that.” She waits for my nod before continuing. “By the time Richard and I divorced, Phillip had married and moved away. But nine years ago, we ran into each other at the grocery store of all places. And I found out his wife had passed away from cancer five years before, and he’d moved the girls back here.”

“The timing was finally right.”

She smiles softly. “You could say that, yes.”

Sitting back in my chair, I close my eyes and try to absorb everything I’ve just learned. The unmet potential of a sibling. My mother’s fear and difficult choice. The conflict of two loves. For her it was two men. For my father, love and art. What all of this means for myself, my heart, and my love for James.

Is he like my father? Can he give himself equally to a partner and to his passion? But the more important question is, Can I let go of the past in order to embrace the future?

There’s only one way to find out.