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uneasy feeling that I already knew the answer to that. I’d always known it.
    But did I real y want to hear it now?
    Mom set two mugs on the table and looked me straight in the eye. “I don’t blame you for being angry, but you came here looking for answers, so if
    you want to hear the whole story, that makes it very much my business, because I’m the only one who knows the whole truth.”
    I leaned back in my chair and glanced toward the window. Outside, the ocean continued to hiss and roar as the waves crashed against the rocks.
    “Did you know that he always disapproved of everything I did?” I asked. “He hated my friends. He told me I was too headstrong for my own good,
    and he never accepted the fact that I wanted to write. He wanted me to choose some other career. ‘Something less creative.’” I shook my head. “He
    never treated me the way he treated Jen. She could get away with murder. He would have walked through fire for her, but he didn’t feel that way
    about me.” I met her gaze. “But you … You were the opposite, so I never understood why you left. I blamed Dad. It had to be his fault. It couldn’t have been mine.”
    Mom sat down. “Your father is a good man, Sophie. I know you’ve had your differences, but he does love you.”
    I scoffed. “You real y think so?”
    Then I recal ed our last telephone conversation when he had surprised me with his compassion. It was the first time he had ever spoken to me like
    that.
    But then he didn’t cal again. Nor did I cal him.
    “If he’s such a good man,” I said, “why aren’t you stil married to him? Why did you leave us and never come back?”
    Her blue eyes flashed with concern, and she hesitated before replying. “That couldn’t be helped. Try to understand that. It’s important that you do.”
    “Wel , I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
    The color drained from her face. “I should pour you that cup of tea now.” She stood up and crossed to the stove. “Because we might be here a
    while.”
    I sat back in my chair and prepared myself, for it was long past time I knew where I came from. I needed to know the real story about my father.
    And by that, I don’t mean the man who raised me.

    Cora’s Story

Chapter Twenty-five
    “Sophie, I remember every precious moment your father and I spent together as if it happened only yesterday. I’m not sure where to begin. There’s
    so much to say.
    “I suppose I’l start with the summer of 1960, shortly after I turned twelve, because that’s when things slowly began to change...”

Chapter Twenty-six
    It was the last day of summer vacation, and the first day I remember feeling differently about your father.
    I finished my supper and rose from the table. “Thanks, Mom,” I said. “I’m going next door.”
    Ignoring the sound of dishes clattering in the sink, I grabbed my sweater and dashed outside.
    The sun was low in the sky, the air cool on my cheeks.
    I hurried up Peter’s steps and knocked on the door. His mother came to answer. “Oh, hel o, Cora.”
    “Can Peter come out?”
    She turned and shouted up the stairs. “Peter! Cora’s here!”
    He immediately came bounding down the stairs, grabbed his jacket from the coat tree and pushed open the screen door. It squeaked before
    snapping shut behind him.
    “What’d you have for supper?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket.
    “Pork roast. What’d you have?”
    “Fried chicken.”
    “Lucky.”
    We both glanced down the street toward Matt’s house. I wondered if he was stil eating his dinner. His dad always made him do the dishes before
    he could play outside.
    “Want to go out back?” Peter asked.
    “Sure.”
    We ran around the side of the house, racing to the tire swing that hung from the big oak tree.
    “You can swing first,” Peter said. “I’l push you.”
    I climbed in and wrapped my arms around the tire. The old rope creaked along the tree bark on the overhead branch as he spun me in dizzying
    circles.
    “Stop!