Dear Irene, I wish you’d told me about Clare back then. When I walked into that party and saw her–and you, all of you–my whole life came crashing down on me. Everything was a lie. Boy, she did push it. If I’d known then what she was I’d have sued for divorce. And no way she ever have gotten a cent out of me, because she was guilty of fraud. That’s right, fraud. I looked it up:

“Fraud is generally defined in the law as an intentional misrepresentation of material existing fact made by one person to another with knowledge of its falsity and for the purpose of inducing the other person to act, and upon which the other person relies with resulting injury or damage. Fraud may also be made by an omission or purposeful failure to state material facts, which nondisclosure makes other statements misleading.”

An open and shut case right there. She’d have been be left on her own, and then she could have gone back to her black friends for good.

But what would have happened to our daughter? No, she wouldn’t have deserved that shame. Well, things worked out differently. I kept her and no one will ever know the truth,  except you. Even if her skin starts to go dark in her 30s, like Clare’s, I’ll deny it. There’s no way of knowing at this point how far back her black ancestor came into the picture. Or, would that be her white ancestors?  In any case I love her with all my heart and she’ll always be white to me.  She reminds me of Clare so much. God I miss my Nig.

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