He had always known Henry to have grown up in a Baltimore orphanage. He had no parents, no siblings, and no past before he turned eighteen. That was the explanation for why there were no relatives to visit, no old family albums, and no letters for him.
William had told this story to his own children for fifty years. Now, thinking back on it, William realized why his dad’s past had always seemed strange. There was no specific orphanage name that Henry ever provided. Whenever William pushed for details, his father would simply change the subject with a sharp, quick finality.
William had always read it as deep, quiet grief. He thought his father was protecting them from a lonely, harsh beginning. Now, looking at the ink on his father’s arm, the story felt flimsy. His pulse quickened. A cold dread settled in his chest. Was the man he called father a survivor, or had he been part of something unforgivable? The possibility that his father had been a war criminal made him feel sick.