I arrived by helicopter to Christmas dinner with the four children he never knew existed — but the real secret had been kept by his own mother for eight years.

But memory is not forgiveness. And regret is not repair.

“They know about you,” I said.

Marcus froze.

“I never told them you were dead. I never told them you were evil. I told them their father wasn’t ready to be part of our family, and that grown-ups sometimes make choices children can’t fix.”

He lowered his head.

Noah appeared in the hallway, cocoa mustache on his upper lip. “Mom?”

I turned instantly. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Rachel says there’s a piano. Can Sophia play it?”

Sophia peeked from behind him, hopeful and nervous.

I smiled. “Ask the owner of the piano.”

Every adult looked at Patricia.

She wiped her eyes again. “Yes. Yes, of course. Please.”

Sophia slipped into the living room, small hands clasped in front of her velvet dress. She approached the upright piano near the window as though it were a sleeping animal. Patricia moved to lift the fallboard, but Sophia did it herself with careful confidence.

“What should I play?” she asked me.

“Whatever feels right.”