One showed a little boy.
The other showed a curly-haired girl who looked exactly like me when I was three.
What I discovered afterward would reveal a family secret my parents had kept for nearly fifty years.
My name is Claire Whitmore. I’m fifty-two, and I’ve taught American history at Lincoln High School for twenty-six years.
Outside the classroom, my greatest passion is genealogy.
I spend weekends searching through old records, building family trees, and uncovering forgotten stories.
My father, George, used to tease me about it.
“Most people spend their evenings watching television, Claire. You spend yours investigating relatives who’ve been gone for a hundred years.”
“At least they don’t ask me to help them move furniture,” I’d reply.
Mom would laugh.
