My half-sister Florence found me eighteen years ago when she was eighty-two. I hadn’t known that my father had a family before he married my mother. And, as I related elsewhere, when my parents got married, having been divorced was not to be talked about.
When Florence died this June, six months after her 100th birthday, I was sad, but more for her daughter Amy and family who have become my good friends. At a small memorial gathering in their home, Amy’s husband Ken ran a slide show of Florence’s life on their TV. The seventy pictures, playing and replaying on a big TV screen, included one of Florence and me at her grandson’s wedding several years ago.
I watched the slide show several times. It included photos of Florence as a child, as a good-looking, movie-star-like-young woman, as a mom and as a professional--Florence as I had never known her.
But it’s the two pictures of Amy’s grandmother, my father’s ex-wife, that I can’t get out of my head. Dad died forty-five years ago, thinking his “secret” was secure. It wasn’t.