A man in a dark coat stood there, maybe late 40s or early 50s, with neat hair and calm eyes.
He looked like he belonged behind a desk, not at our chipped doorway.
« I’ve been trying to find your husband for a long time. »
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« Good morning, » he said. « Are you Claire? »
I nodded slowly.
Every foster care alarm bell in my body started ringing.
« My name is Thomas, » he said. « I know we don’t know each other, but I’ve been trying to find your husband for a long time. »
My chest tightened.
« There’s something you don’t know about your husband. »
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