Henry didn’t say anything, but his quiet presence was comforting. When we arrived at the cinema, I hesitated before knocking on Mark’s office door.
Inside, Mark sat at his desk, his papers neatly arranged. He met my gaze for a moment, then gave Henry a brief nod.
“What’s this about?” he asked sharply.
I took a deep breath. “This is my friend, Henry.” My voice wavered as the tension in the room grew heavier.
Mark’s expression stayed neutral. “Go on.”
“I wanted to ask about someone who used to work here years ago,” I said. “A woman named Clara.”
Mark stiffened slightly, then leaned back in his chair. “I don’t discuss former employees.”
“Please,” I urged. “Henry has been searching for her for decades. We just want the truth.”
Mark glanced at Henry, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t owe him anything. Or you.”
Henry finally spoke, his voice full of emotion. “I loved her. She was everything to me.”
Mark clenched his jaw. “Clara wasn’t her real name.”
“What?” I blinked, completely caught off guard.
“She went by Clara, but her real name was Martha,” Mark admitted, his voice cutting through the silence. “Your mother.” He pointed at Henry. “She changed her name because she was with you and didn’t want me to find out.”
The room fell into a heavy silence.
Henry’s face turned pale. “Martha?”
“She was pregnant when I found out about the affair,” Mark continued, his voice laced with resentment. “And it turns out… the child was yours.” He looked at me then, and for a moment, the usual coldness in his eyes wavered, revealing something deeper—maybe regret. “I thought that if I kept her away from you, she would turn to me instead. But that didn’t happen. And when you were born…”
Mark let out a long breath. “I realized I wasn’t your father.”
The words hit me like a wave, my mind spinning. “So you knew all this time?”
“I took care of her,” Mark said, looking away. “For you. But I couldn’t stay.”
Henry’s voice trembled. “Martha was Clara?”
“To me, she was Martha,” Mark said firmly. “But with you, it seems she wanted to be someone else.”
Henry sank into a chair, his hands shaking. “She never told me. I… I had no idea.”
I looked between them, my heart racing. Mark wasn’t my father after all.
“I think,” I said carefully, “we should go see her. Together.” I met Henry’s eyes, then turned to Mark, holding his gaze. “Christmas is about forgiveness. If there’s ever a time to make things right, it’s now.”
For a moment, I thought Mark would laugh or dismiss the idea. But to my surprise, he hesitated. His rigid expression softened just a little. Then, without a word, he grabbed his overcoat and gave a small nod.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Mark said gruffly, slipping on his coat.
The car ride to the care facility was silent. Henry sat beside me, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. Mark sat in the back, stiff and tense, staring out the window.
When we arrived, the holiday wreath hanging on the entrance door felt oddly out of place against the serious atmosphere of the building.
Inside, my mother sat by the lounge window, wrapped in a warm cardigan. She stared off into the distance, lost in a world far from the present. Her hands rested still in her lap as we approached.
“Mom,” I called softly. She didn’t respond.
Henry stepped forward, his movements careful and deliberate. He stood in front of her, a mix of hope and nervousness on his face.