Advertisement
Pointing him out
I pointed to the portrait above the fireplace, and their gazes followed mine. Clara’s face softened with recognition. “That’s… Dad?” she whispered, her voice wavering. We all stared at the painting, struggling to reconcile this wealthy, well-dressed version of our father with the modest man who had raised us. After pondering for a while, we walked into the mansion’s dining room together.
Page 31 of 50
