Inside, a tall, thin woman in a black cardigan sat at a desk. She was on the phone and motioned with her hand for him to wait. His breath quickened.

She soon hung up and stood. “Mr. Blake, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Rowan put out his hand.

“Sonia McGowan,” she said, taking it lightly. “Come, this way. Please.” She started walking and Rowan followed. “You’re just arrived from New York? You must be tired.” Without waiting for him to answer, or looking back, she continued. “How was your flight?”

She led him through an open door into a small room with a corner window that looked out onto a gray wall, and indicated an old armchair. Rowan sat and the woman took the seat opposite. There was a small table between them with a box of tissues, a pen, and a clipboard holding paper. The linoleum floor was so polished his shoes squeaked when he shifted position to recross his legs.

“How can I help you?” she said.

Rowan thought she sighed before reaching for the clipboard. He didn’t think he could begin.

“Go on, please.”

“Well…” He ran his fingers through his hair. He looked around the room a moment. “I think I’ve just become a father.”

She didn’t say anything right away but a minor smile softened her face. It was brief. “Tell me whatever you know. You’ve requested a meeting with the Adoption Board, presumably because there’s some connection to us—”

Rowan interrupted and spoke quickly, “I found out two days ago that a young woman I was dating over twenty years ago had a baby, and she gave her baby…” He paused, searching for the right words. He didn’t want to say them.

“She placed her baby for adoption?”

“Yes.” Rowan nodded. “That’s right. I believe.” He sat back in his seat and let out a long, soundless whistle. He put his hands on his knees and clasped them and shifted his weight forward.

“I see,” Sonia McGowan said, “and just to be clear, Mr. Blake, you’re questioning whether the baby was adopted here? In Ireland?” She was writing on the form held by the clipboard.

“I’m not suggesting it, Ms. McGowan. I know it to be true. I have a letter from her, the baby’s mother, telling me that she did.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope and eased the letter carefully from it. He looked once more before handing it over. It was folded in four and well creased.

She read it.

Dear Ro,

A year ago I had a baby. A girl. She was born in Dublin. I gave her up for adoption a couple of weeks after I gave birth. She was placed with a very loving couple in the west of the country a few weeks later. I’ve had confirmation from a social worker at the agency that an adoption order has been granted to her new parents. So now it’s legal. That’s why I’m writing.

Our daughter is now someone else’s. I met them, Rowan. They will give our baby everything we couldn’t. A home, and parents. Plural.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I needed to wait until it was too late for you to do something.

I was excited to tell you I was pregnant when I came home that time at Christmas. Excited to be starting a family. I’d meant for it to be a surprise. I was three months then. You didn’t notice.

I went back to Dublin after you broke our engagement. I didn’t tell my parents I was pregnant. I’m sorry about that, but it would have made them too sad and they would have tried to stop me.

I just wanted my baby to grow up with a mother and a father. With parents who lived together and loved each other.

I hope you will forgive me …

Love,

Hil

P.S. Her name is Rose.

The social worker’s head was tilted as she read and Rowan noted the dark circles under her eyes. She was older than he’d first thought and there was something deeply melancholic about her. She looked up suddenly and said, “When was this?” There was an odd urgency in her voice.

“About twenty years ago,” Rowan said. “Why?”

“It’s just—”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She looked down at the box of tissues. “I’m … I’m not sure what I was thinking. Sorry. I was reminded of something.” She paused another moment. “It’s signed ‘Hil,’” she said, returning the letter to Rowan.

“Short for Hilary. Her name was Hilary Barrett. She’s dead now. She died—”

The clipboard slipped down Ms. McGowan’s lap. It hit the linoleum floor with a sharp clack, a sound as if something had snapped or been freed, or, as in an old lock, a key had been turned. Her face paled. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she retrieved the clipboard. “Sorry.”

“Ms. McGowan, what’s wrong?”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes. She died before she could mail me the letter. Her parents kept it and for their own reasons didn’t tell me. That’s why I only just found out. Purely by accident. If I’d known—”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to hear that. Poor girl.”

“She was … lovely.”

“No. I mean—”

“What?”

“I mean, of course. Poor girl. I hope she found comfort in knowing she placed her baby with a loving, adoptive couple. A very courageous thing to do.” Her voice had changed. It was like Sonia McGowan had momentarily gone on autopilot. “It seems you have all the information already, Mr. Blake. I’m sorry to tell you that adoptions made legally in this country are closed. You know what that means?”

“It means all identifying information is private. Yes. I checked your Web site. I understand I can join some contact register.”

“Yes. That’s true. You can register as the natural father.”

“I’m not a natural father!”

“You’re not the natural father?”

“No … I mean, yes I am … well, according to Hilary. And I have no reason to question that. But it’s a distortion, there’s nothing natural about it.”

Sonia performed a minor smile again. She’d recovered her color, and now unclipped some papers from her clipboard and handed them to Rowan. “The terminology is unfortunate. We often hear that from adoptive parents who prefer the term ‘birth parent’ to ‘natural parent.’ But, well, we’re all in the same—to use your word—distortion,” she said. “Here’s a form. Take it with you and look it over. You can decide what level of contact, if any, you’re open to in the event the adopted person in question is also registered, and, more importantly, also open to contact. Although I have to tell you it is entirely her choice to be contacted. Or not. And if she has requested no contact, we must all abide by that.” She looked down. “I hope you understand. Sometimes it turns out adoptive children, when they become adults, are open to being approached by members of the original birth family. I’ve known of several cases where it has turned out well. But also, I’m sorry to say, I’ve known cases, in my personal experience, where it hasn’t.”

Rowan accepted the form and folded it without looking. He kept his eyes on Sonia. His eyes teared. She lifted her eyes and noticed. He’d previously noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Is there anything more I can help you with, Mr. Blake?” she asked. “I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way. And I can only imagine the state of shock you must be in. I wish, really, there was something more I could do for you. Is there anything else?”

Rowan noted the shift. Sonia had returned from autopilot and was back in manual mode. He studied her a moment because he imagined Sonia McGowan was trying to tell him something. “I’m sorry, Ms. McGowan, but do I get the feeling that you know something you’re not saying?”

“There is nothing I know of that I can share with you,” she said, looking away. She closed the file. She straightened the line of her cardigan. She took a tissue from the box and tucked it into her sleeve.

“Nothing?”

Not for the first time, it seemed to Rowan, Sonia McGowan fought with herself. In that small room off the square where each day the light and shadow crossed a gray wall she was struggling with something. She pushed back a strand of her hair at her temple. Her voice broke as she began to speak, quietly, haltingly, “Her name is Rose—”