He didn’t answer right away.

He looked at the envelope still in my hands, then back at my face — studying it, almost like he was confirming something.

“Because,” he said slowly, “the daughter she lost…

was given away at birth.

And Eleanor spent the last forty years trying to find her.”

The ground felt unsteady beneath me.

“Mr.

— ” I started.

“There’s more in the envelope,” he said.

“A name.

A date.

A hospital record.”

He looked at me one final time before turning toward his car.

“I think you already know whose name is on it.”