The words appear as ragged scrawls, which I cannot yet decipher, my chest feels its breaking point, and I am losing my vision as tears spill onto the pages. Is this book authentically holding the truths that have been held from me? As I look at the weary, worn pages, I realize I do not want to know. Has my courage been a facade now that my history lies in my grasp?
My mother is not here with me, but I need her answers to give me some reconciliation with my concealed heritage and perhaps a more certain conviction that what I am involved with today in 1992 is not a waste of my honor and energy. I have come to expect when I read her words that I would find something, anything. She has only been gone for two weeks and still I feel as though I am trespassing. My mother, Kiera, kept her secrets tight to her breast and there was an unspoken tension that if I asked it would shatter her. I want to know who this man is behind the enigmatic person she named as my father. He will not be given impunity, but perhaps a glimpse into who I truly am.