My grandfather passed away when I was eleven. I hadn’t known him in any meaningful way, other than through gifts he gave. He always had something to give me, whether it was a special sweet treat, or a soft wool sweater.
The most common gift he gave was books. Sometimes he had a handful of books, sometimes an entire garbage bag stuffed with books. The books spanned the genres, from Archie comics, to Babysitter’s Club, to teenage romance. I cherished the books, looking forward to receiving each new batch.
It took me several years to notice an odd but consistent pattern with the books. Every single book had a name written on the inside cover: “L. Fong,” in simple, clear script. My grandfather’s last name was Fong, but the “L” caught my attention. There was no close Fong relative I could recall with the first initial L. Who was the previous owner of these books, I wondered. But I enjoyed the books, so after a while I forgot about the mystery of L. Fong. I supposed it was probably a distant cousin I had never met.
A year or so after my grandfather passed, my mother revealed a surprising family secret to me. “Your grandfather had a longtime affair with a woman. They had a daughter together.”
I tried to wrap my mind around this news. My mother and her siblings had a half-sister born out of an affair. She was a few years older than me. She and her mother lived nearby. All of this had been a shameful secret unbeknownst to me until my mother decided I was old enough to know the truth.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Leah,”* was my mother’s answer.
Leah Fong. L. Fong. My source of books. My half-aunt, unacknowledged by most of our family. I was curious, and asked my mother more questions about Leah. She didn't know much, but was open with what information she had.
I kept those books for years. Each time I glanced at Leah's name on a book’s page, I thought about her, wondered about her life, and sent her a silent “thank you” for the books.
*name changed
The most common gift he gave was books. Sometimes he had a handful of books, sometimes an entire garbage bag stuffed with books. The books spanned the genres, from Archie comics, to Babysitter’s Club, to teenage romance. I cherished the books, looking forward to receiving each new batch.
It took me several years to notice an odd but consistent pattern with the books. Every single book had a name written on the inside cover: “L. Fong,” in simple, clear script. My grandfather’s last name was Fong, but the “L” caught my attention. There was no close Fong relative I could recall with the first initial L. Who was the previous owner of these books, I wondered. But I enjoyed the books, so after a while I forgot about the mystery of L. Fong. I supposed it was probably a distant cousin I had never met.
A year or so after my grandfather passed, my mother revealed a surprising family secret to me. “Your grandfather had a longtime affair with a woman. They had a daughter together.”
I tried to wrap my mind around this news. My mother and her siblings had a half-sister born out of an affair. She was a few years older than me. She and her mother lived nearby. All of this had been a shameful secret unbeknownst to me until my mother decided I was old enough to know the truth.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Leah,”* was my mother’s answer.
Leah Fong. L. Fong. My source of books. My half-aunt, unacknowledged by most of our family. I was curious, and asked my mother more questions about Leah. She didn't know much, but was open with what information she had.
I kept those books for years. Each time I glanced at Leah's name on a book’s page, I thought about her, wondered about her life, and sent her a silent “thank you” for the books.
*name changed
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