JOURNAL ENTRY, MAY 1964: By the time I arrived at the school, an hour had passed since the principal’s call to the restaurant, and you were falling apart in a way I hadn’t seen since the day you learned that Ken was not your father. I thought you were hurt, so I ran over and started looking for blood. You wouldn’t tell me what had happened, and I didn’t know anything: the principal had said only to come right away. When he showed me the Daily News headline, I flinched to see what the newspaper had done to our portrait.

“Miss Preston,” the principal said in a voice that didn’t hide his opinion. “I’ve seen a lot in my ten years as an elementary school principal, but this, well, I won’t ask you what you were doing taking pictures like this because I suppose it’s your right, but to show them in public . . .”

I knew about the verdict. Nina had called the night before to say they’d be petitioning the U.S. Supreme Court, and to explain when and how they’d learn if the court would hear the case. Possibly she hadn’t mentioned the press because she hadn’t known. As long as I choose to believe this, I remain recognizable to myself. But if Nina was expecting those newspaper headlines and didn’t mention them, that means she stole my only chance to prepare you for what was coming—and if I choose to believe that, then my anger turns me into a stranger. In any case, I was caught completely by surprise. It took me several moments to connect Nina’s latest trial with the headline the principal was holding in his hand.

“Let me ask you one thing,” he said when at first I said nothing. “Did you ever stop to think what this would do to your daughter?” He viewed my stunned silence through the same broken lens he’d held up to everything else. “That’s what I thought,” he said.

You didn’t want to go back to class, and I wasn’t about to make you. We were half a block from home when I saw the man waiting on our stoop. “Miss Preston?” He reached us before I had a chance to think. “Peter Grunloh, Daily News. Do you have anything to say about the outcome of yesterday’s trial? Does the fact that you took a plea bargain rather than face trial yourself mean you agree with the court’s verdict? What were you hoping to accomplish by exhibiting those photos of yourself and your little girl? Is this her? Hey, Samantha, what do you think about—” but by then we’d reached our door. The telephone was ringing. Once I’d locked us inside and closed the curtains I picked up, thinking it was Grete, but it was another reporter. When I hung up, the phone began to ring some more.