Well I Never

I never questioned that torn photograph
of my young, beautiful, blond mother
sat on a rock with a phantom arm
draped around her slim shoulder

I never understood her eager receipt
of those brown manila letters
addressed to someone not quite her
that she hid with such discomfiture

I never knew until she was gone
even the name of my absent father
that I was officially “bastard child”
of a man they called Trevor.