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"Who is my father?"

"I don't know," she replied quickly, almost too

quickly. She turned to me.

"So now you know all this. Are you going to be

better for it? What are you going to do with the

knowledge, Cathy?"

"I don't know. It will take time to digest it," I

said, swallowing hard.

"You want my advice? Bury it. That's what I

did." "Did you? Did you really ever bury it or did you

let it bury you?"

She studied me and then her eyes narrowed. "So, what are you going to do now? Are you

going to hate me more for keeping the truth from

you?"

"I don't hate you," I said.

"Are you still going to call me Mother?" "I don't know how I can start doing otherwise,"

I said.

She nodded. Then she turned and looked out

the window.

"I'm tired, Cathy," she said. "Let's let each other

rest," she pleaded.

"Okay," I said and left her rocking, staring into

the night, staring back through her own troubled

memories.

Her revelations didn't make me feel any better.

In fact, they made me feel even more alone, even

more like someone just drifting. What did I have to

look forward to now? I wondered.

I thought about the other girls. They were like

me that way, too. They were drifting.