i was following the wrong prompt
a letter in the room where my mother was staying when she broke her arm not long ago. a hand written letter from 1965 . A man she
met at the mental institution in North Carolina when I was six years old. The same place Zelda Fitzgerald stayed at in the twenties.
In the mountains. We went to visit her there once, my sister and I.
It was a love letter of sorts. Well you had to read between the lines. He was not my father that is all I know. I gave it back to her with some other papers she had left there. I never mentioned it.