But they hadn’t wanted him. And it was OK, because he loves his mom and dad so much he can literally not imagine life without them. People expect him to be curious about Russia, to like Russian things, and he doesn’t even want to watch TV or movies set there. He doesn’t like to watch anything about Russia. It means nothing to him.

He stares at the picture of Boris Stepurin.

There are certainly other Boris Stepurins in Russia. But here is one who has a bio written in Russian and English on the website and lists his spoken languages as Russian, English, and French. He has worked in his firm’s Paris, Saint Petersburg, and Moscow offices.

Paris. Hadn’t the stock photo of the woman in the rain been from France? It was in the first email the Sender sent him.

Grant finds an email link on Stepurin’s bio. He presses it and writes, quickly, before he can talk himself out of it:

Dear Mr. Stepurin:

My name is Grant Alexander Pollitt. I was born Alexander Stepurin and adopted from Russia. I think you might be my biological father. My mother was listed on my papers as Anna Averina. I don’t want to bother you and I don’t want anything from you—you have your own life and your wife and your kids and I bet we’re probably both happy in our lives. But someone has been sending me weird emails and I traced the emails to Saint Petersburg and I think it has to do with me being from Russia, like there’s a secret connected to it.

He attaches the pictures he’s gotten. The woman in the rain, the cat in the house.

If you are my father I won’t bother you again, but please could you answer one question for me? Do these photos mean anything to you? I hope you have a nice life. I really do. I have had a good life; my mom and dad and sister here love me so much and I’m happy, so I hope that puts your mind at ease. I am sorry to have bothered you.

Best, Grant Pollitt

He wonders if the man might delete the email as soon as he reads it, as the laughter of his legitimate children sounds in the background. The soft voice of his wife asking him when he’d be done on the computer, to come curl up on the couch together with them, to watch a movie. Or he’d read it in his office or on his phone and, embarrassed, trash it immediately and never answer.

Grant presses send. The little stupid whooshing sound does its business, and he stares at his in-box, waiting for an answer. After a moment he shuts down the screen.

*  *  *