“Yes, I can imagine,” she says, her gaze lost in her tea. “I’m still coming down from the emotional shock. He looks so much like my dad.”
I fiddle with my latte, measuring my next words. “Can I ask, um, why—”
“Why I abandoned him?” she says with a sad smile. “It’s normal to be curious. I was prepared to give him the full story. Maybe I can give it to you instead.”
I encourage her with a nod.
“Well, I wasn’t always like this. Calm. Collected. Successful.” She chuckles softly. “When I had Baptiste, I was a mess. Fitting, since that’s where I lived back then—Metz, in the northeast of France.”
I freeze.
How does she know that?
I’m almost certain his true birthplace has never been mentioned anywhere. The articles always say Strasbourg.
“Forgive me,” I say carefully. “But are you French? I don’t hear an accent.”
“Oh no,” she says with a smile. “I’m American. My dad took part in the D-Day landings. That’s when he met my mom, who was working as an army nurse, and they decided to stay in France after the war. But my mom got sick when I was young, so I never really knew her. It was mostly just Dad and me.” Her eyes glisten. “Hepassed away shortly before Baptiste’s birth. My boyfriend decided a baby was too much to handle, so he was out of the picture. And when I lost my job while I was pregnant, I found myself alone with a newborn—no place to live, no income—at thirty-three. A real mess.”
“That must have been tough,” I say softly.
“I just wanted him to have a chance,” she continues. “Something I didn’t believe I could give him. They assured me he’d be adopted and placed with a loving, stable family. They said clean breaks are usually better for everyone, so I didn’t leave a name behind.” Her eyes brim with moisture, and a single tear escapes. She turns away to wipe it. “Anyway… they were right. Just look at him now.”
“But you got yourself together eventually?” I prod.
She gives a small shrug. “I did. I’m a late bloomer. A lot of failures until I started this company, and things finally clicked. Now I make a good living, but it wasn’t too long ago I was still struggling.”
“And you never got married or had other kids?”
She shakes her head slowly. “No. I never wanted to.”
“And how long have you known Baptiste was your son?” I ask carefully. “How did you find out? The interview?”
A small crease forms in her forehead, and for a brief second, I wonder if I got made. Maybe I need to cool off on the questions.
“Sorry,” I add with a chuckle. “I’m just trying to piece everything together. I’m too curious for my own good.”
Her green eyes soften. “That’s okay. I understand. You want to make sure my story checks out. That’s to be expected. Honestly, I’m glad he has a good friend like you in his life.”
A smile tugs at my lips.Friend. I guess we are. That’s how I introduced myself to her, after all. Still, the term feels so foreign. I’ve been working with the same colleagues for years, and I still don’t call them my friends. Yet Baptiste feels close even though we’ve only known each other for barely two weeks.
She takes a sip of her tea. “Yes. I read the interview, and the pieces came together—his eyes, how much he looked like my dad, the fact that he was born in France and placed in foster care.”
“But the interview says he was born in Strasbourg, not Metz.”
She smiles. “Yes, and that threw me off at first. But it’s only a couple of hours away. When I looked him up and saw his date of birth, that was all the confirmation I needed. I’ll never forget that day.”
“I see,” I mumble, leaning back and finishing my drink.
It’s a compelling story—one thatcoulddefinitely be true. But what if it’s just a well-rehearsed and well-researched speech? I’ve seen far more sinister things in my career, and I’ve learned never to trust first impressions.
“I’m curious, why didn’t you say he was from Metz in your article?” she asks, surprising me. “Did he ask you not to?”
I blink, dumbstruck for a few seconds. “What gave me away?” I blurt, half amused, half impressed. “My interrogation techniques?”
She chuckles. “That, and your name. I remembered the article was written by a Harper. And when I interrupted you earlier, you were putting a tape recorder back in your bag.”
I smile. She knew this whole time, and she still told me the truth. At least, I’m pretty sure she did.
