The Woman Named Nora
At breakfast, Jeremy would not look at me.
He pushed another note across the table.
I found Nora’s name in Dad’s old file box. There was an address.
I wanted to ask how long he had known about it. I wanted to ask whether he had searched the box recently or had remembered the address all these years.
But his face was pale and exhausted.
I did not pressure him.
Instead, I took the note, found my car keys, and drove to the address.
Nora lived approximately forty minutes away in a modest brick duplex. The curtains were open, but the yard looked neglected, as though the person inside had stopped expecting visitors long ago.
