tter was hidden beneath insurance documents in James’ safe, written in his careful handwriting on our anniversary letterhead from three years ago. I’d been avoiding the safe for six months since his sudden death, but the estate lawyer insisted I needed to locate all financial documents before we could finalize the probate process. What I found instead was a confession that shattered forty years of marriage in the space of eight devastating pages.
“My dearest Catherine, if you are reading this, then I am dead, and you are about to discover the truth I was too cowardly to tell you while I was alive. You deserve to know everything. But more importantly, two children in Morocco desperately need you now that they have lost both their parents.”
My hands trembled as I read those opening lines, sitting in James’ study, surrounded by the methodical filing system he’d maintained for our entire marriage. Two children. Children that James had never mentioned in forty years of sharing every detail of our lives together.
“In 1998, during a business trip to Morocco, I met Fatima Benali. What began as a professional relationship became something I never intended. I fell in love with her. Catherine, I want you to understand that this was never about not loving you. I loved you then, and I love you now with every fiber of my being. But Fatima could give me something that fate had cruelly denied us: children.”
I set the letter down, needing to catch my breath as memories flooded back of our years struggling with infertility. The treatments, the hope, the devastating disappointments month after month. The specialists in Boston who finally told us that children were medically impossible. The adoption agencies that led nowhere. The gradual acceptance that we would be a childless couple, channeling our parental instincts into other pursuits.
James had been my rock through all of it, holding me through countless nights of grief, assuring me that our love was enough, that we could build a meaningful life together without children. He’d seemed genuinely content with our quiet life, never expressing regret or resentment about our biological limitations.
Apparently, he’d found another solution.
“Fatima and I have two children together, Yasin, now sixteen, and Amina, fourteen. For the past fifteen years, I have maintained a second life, traveling to Morocco twice yearly under the pretense of business trips, sending money monthly to support their education and living expenses.”
I thought about all those business trips, the conferences in Atlanta and Chicago that required extended travel, the insurance industry meetings that kept him away for a week at a time. James had always been so detailed about his travel plans, showing me itineraries and calling every evening from his hotel room.
How had he been living a double life elaborate enough to include two children without me suspecting anything?
“Catherine, I know this revelation will destroy you, and I hate myself for the pain I am causing, but you must understand Fatima died three years ago from cancer. Since then, I have been the only parent these children have known, caring for them from a distance while they live with Fatima’s elderly uncle in Marrakesh.”
Three years ago.
I remembered that period clearly. James had seemed depressed and distracted, claiming work stress and health concerns about aging. I’d attributed his mood changes to normal midlife anxieties, encouraged him to see our doctor, suggested he consider reducing his workload. Never once had it occurred to me that my husband was grieving the death of another woman, processing loss that he couldn’t share with me.
“I have set aside $200,000 in a separate account to ensure Yasin and Amina can complete their education. Yasin dreams of studying engineering at an American university. Amina is brilliant and wants to become a doctor. They both speak perfect English and French, and they have known about you their entire lives. Catherine, they know you exist. They know you are their father’s wife, and they understand that you are the only family they have left in the world.”
I felt nauseous reading about these children who’d grown up knowing about me while I’d been completely ignorant of their existence. What had James told them about his American wife who couldn’t give him children? How had he explained his absence, his divided loyalty, his choice to maintain two separate families on different continents?
“I am leaving you an address in Marrakesh. Ahmad Bali, Fatima’s uncle, is seventy-eight years old and can no longer properly care for two teenagers. Catherine, I am asking—no, I am begging—you to go to Morocco and meet Yasin and Amina. They are wonderful, intelligent, loving children who have lost everything and everyone they’ve ever depended on.”
I walked to James’ world map, the same map I’d stared at countless times during our marriage, without knowing that my husband had a secret life in North Africa. Morocco seemed impossibly distant from our comfortable existence in Hartford, as foreign and unreachable as James had always made our life seem predictable and contained.
But apparently, for fifteen years James had been traveling to this exotic destination regularly, building relationships and responsibilities that he’d hidden from me with elaborate precision.
“I know I have no right to ask anything of you after this betrayal. I know that learning about Fatima and the children will cause you pain that I can never repair. But Catherine, these children need someone who understands education, who values learning, who can guide them toward the futures they deserve. They need a mother.”
A mother.
The word I’d longed to claim for myself throughout our marriage. The identity that had been medically impossible for me to achieve, now being offered through the children my husband had created with another woman.
“Yasin and Amina are not responsible for the choices I made. They are innocent children who have lost both parents and have nowhere else to turn. Catherine, you have so much love to give, so much wisdom and strength. You would be an incredible mother to them if you can find it in your heart to forgive my betrayal and embrace this unexpected opportunity.”
I read the final pages through tears, absorbing James’ detailed descriptions of Yasin’s academic achievements and dreams of studying engineering in America, of Amina’s brilliance in mathematics and her determination to become a doctor despite the educational limitations for women in Morocco.
“I am leaving you the choice, Catherine. You can ignore this letter. Let the children remain with Ahmad until he dies and allow them to face an uncertain future in Morocco. Or you can travel to Marrakesh, meet the remarkable young people who carry my genes and Fatima’s wisdom, and consider whether you might want to become their mother. I pray that you can forgive me enough to give Yasin and Amina the chance I never had the courage to offer you directly. They are the children we always wanted, Catherine. They just came to us in a way neither of us could have anticipated.”
I sat in James’ chair holding eight pages that had transformed me from a grieving widow into a woman facing the most important decision of her life. Somewhere in Morocco, two teenagers were waiting for news about their future, depending on whether their father’s betrayed wife could find enough love and forgiveness to embrace the children that her infertility had made impossible. But James’ faithlessness had made real.
The envelope also contained the Marrakesh address and copies of legal documents establishing James’ paternity and financial responsibilities. Everything I needed to find the children who didn’t know that their distant father had died six months ago, leaving them completely alone in the world, except for an American woman they’d never met.
Some secrets, I was discovering, weren’t just about betrayal. They were about opportunity disguised as devastating loss.
Tomorrow I would book a flight to Morocco to meet the children I’d never had.
I didn’t tell my friends or James’ family about the letter. How could I explain that my husband of forty years had maintained a secret family in Morocco while I’d spent decades grieving our childlessness? Instead, I told everyone I needed time alone to process my grief and was taking a short trip to gain perspective on rebuilding my life.
The flight to Casablanca gave me thirteen hours to imagine meeting children who knew me as Papa’s wife in America while I’d never known they existed. James’ letter had included photographs. Yasin was tall and serious-looking with James’ eyes and dark hair. Amina was petite with an infectious smile and the kind of intelligence that radiated from her expression. They looked like the children James and I might have had if genetics had been kinder to us.
During the connection in Paris, I sat in the terminal reading James’ letter for the dozenth time, trying to understand how he’d managed such elaborate deception. The business trips that had seemed perfectly legitimate, the detailed itineraries he’d shared with me, the phone calls from hotel rooms that I now realized might have been from Moroccan guesthouses. James had been living a double life so sophisticated that I’d never suspected anything unusual about his travel patterns.
What hurt most wasn’t just the betrayal. It was the realization that James had found a way to become a father while watching me grieve our childlessness for decades. He’d seen my pain every Mother’s Day. Every baby shower invitation that broke my heart. Every friend’s pregnancy announcement that reminded me of what we couldn’t have. And all the while he’d been secretly raising two children with another woman.
The taxi ride from Marrakesh airport to the address James had provided was overwhelming. The ancient city walls, the palm trees, the mixture of Arabic and French languages created a sensory experience unlike anything I’d encountered in my careful, predictable life. This was the world James had been visiting twice yearly. The place where his children had grown up while I’d been teaching French to Connecticut teenagers.
Number 12 Rue Palmier was a traditional Moroccan house with a blue door decorated with geometric patterns. I stood outside holding James’ letter and wondering what I would say to children who’d lost both parents and were now depending on a woman they’d never met to determine their future.
I knocked three times, my heart pounding with anxiety about meeting adolescents who would be grieving their father while discovering that their only remaining guardian was a stranger from another continent.
The door opened to reveal an elderly man with kind eyes and traditional Moroccan clothing. Behind him, I could see two teenagers watching nervously from the hallway. A tall boy and a smaller girl who matched the photographs James had included with his confession.
“Madame Catherine?” the elderly man asked in accented English.
“Yes, I’m Catherine Morrison. You must be Ahmad.”
“Please come in. The children have been waiting to meet you.”
I followed Ahmad into a traditional Moroccan living room where Yasin and Amina sat on low cushions, both of them studying me with expressions that mixed hope, uncertainty, and profound sadness. They looked exactly like their photographs, but seeing them in person made the reality of James’ secret life devastatingly concrete.
“Yasin. Amina,” Ahmad said gently. “This is your father’s wife, Madame Catherine.”
Yasin stood up with formal politeness that suggested careful upbringing. He was taller than I’d expected, probably six feet, with James’ facial structure but more delicate features that must have come from Fatima.
“Madame Catherine, thank you for coming to see us,” he said in perfect English with a slight British accent. “We are very sad about Papa’s death, and we know you must be sad, too.”
Amina remained seated, her large, dark eyes studying me with the intensity of someone trying to assess whether I might be trustworthy or threatening to her security.
“We weren’t sure if you would come,” she said quietly. “Papa always said you were kind, but we didn’t know if you would want to meet us.”
The careful way they spoke about their father revealed that James had discussed me with them regularly, creating a relationship where they knew about their father’s American wife while I’d been completely ignorant of their existence.
“Your father wrote me a letter explaining about your family,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “He wanted me to meet you and understand your situation.”
Ahmad gestured for me to sit on the cushions across from the children.
“Madame Catherine, perhaps you would like tea while we talk about the children’s circumstances.”
As Ahmad prepared mint tea, I sat with Yasin and Amina in awkward silence. All of us processing the strangeness of meeting family members who were simultaneously strangers and intimately connected through James’ secret life.
“Papa talked about you often,” Yasin said eventually. “He said you were a teacher who loved books and that you would understand why education is important to us. He said you tried to have children but couldn’t.”
“Papa explained that’s why you never visited us,” Amina added with the directness that adolescence sometimes uses when discussing sensitive topics. “Papa said it would be too sad for you to see children that weren’t yours.”
I felt tears forming as I realized that James had used my infertility to explain his compartmentalized life to his Moroccan children. He’d portrayed me as too emotionally fragile to handle knowing about their existence when the truth was that he’d been too cowardly to tell me he’d found another woman who could give him children.
“Your father was protecting both of us from a very complicated situation,” I said carefully.
“Madame Catherine,” Yasin said, his voice taking on the seriousness that suggested he’d been forced to mature quickly after losing both parents, “Uncle Ahmad is too old to take care of us much longer. Papa promised he would arrange for our education in America, but we don’t know what happens now.”
“Papa left money for us to go to university,” Amina added. “But we need someone to help us apply and arrange everything. Uncle Ahmad doesn’t understand American schools.”
I looked at these two intelligent teenagers who were politely asking for help while trying to hide their desperation about their uncertain future. They’d lost their mother three years ago, their father six months ago, and now faced the possibility that their educational dreams would disappear because there was no adult capable of navigating international education systems on their behalf.
“What do you want to study?” I asked.
“Engineering,” Yasin said immediately. “Papa said American universities have the best engineering programs, and I want to design bridges and buildings.”
“Medicine,” Amina said. “I want to be a doctor and help people, but women can’t easily become doctors here in Morocco.”
I listened to these children describe dreams that were exactly the kind of ambitions James and I would have encouraged in our own children if we’d been able to have them. They were intelligent, motivated, and articulate about their goals in ways that suggested excellent parenting from both James and Fatima.
“Your father’s letter explained that you need someone to help you navigate American education and immigration,” I said.
“Yes, madame, but we don’t want to be a burden to anyone,” Yasin replied. “We just need guidance about applications and legal requirements.”
I looked at Yasin and Amina, these remarkable teenagers who were trying to be independent and responsible while clearly needing adult support to achieve their educational goals. James had been right that they deserved guidance from someone who understood both education and the emotional support that adolescence required during major life transitions.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that we should discuss what kind of help you actually need and what I might be able to provide.”
Some opportunities, I was beginning to understand, came disguised as betrayals too painful to comprehend immediately. But sitting with James’ children, I started to glimpse the possibility that his devastating confession might have been an unexpected gift rather than just a cruel revelation about the lies that had defined our marriage.
Ahmad served mint tea in traditional glasses while the four of us sat in the comfortable silence that seemed to indicate everyone was processing the magnitude of what we were discussing. I studied Yasin and Amina’s faces, looking for traces of James while trying to understand how I felt about meeting children who were both innocent victims of their father’s deception and living reminders of his betrayal.
“Papa visited us twice each year,” Yasin explained as we sipped the sweet tea. “He would stay for two weeks, help with our schoolwork, and tell us stories about America and his work.”
“He brought us books and educational materials,” Amina added. “Papa said American education was different from Moroccan schools and that we needed to prepare ourselves if we wanted to study there.”
I felt a complex mixture of emotions listening to them describe James’ involvement in their lives. He’d been an active, caring father to children I’d never known existed while maintaining the façade of our childless marriage with me. Every business trip that had taken him away from me had been a chance to be with his secret family.
“Did your father tell you about his life in America?” I asked.
“He told us about your house and your garden,” Yasin said. “He said you grew tomatoes and flowers and that you read books in French and English.”
“Papa showed us photographs of you,” Amina said quietly. “We have a picture of your wedding day on the shelf in our room.”
The idea that James’ Moroccan children had been looking at photographs of our wedding while I’d been completely ignorant of their existence created a surreal sense of intimacy with strangers. They knew details about my life while I was just learning that they existed.
Ahmad cleared his throat gently.
“Madame Catherine, perhaps I should explain the children’s current situation more clearly.”
“Please, I’d like to understand everything.”
“Fatima died three years ago after a long illness with cancer,” Ahmad said, his voice trailing off with the sadness of someone who’d watched a beloved family member suffer. “James arranged for the best medical care, but…”
“After Mama died, Papa visited more often,” Yasin said. “He came three times last year instead of twice, and he stayed longer each time.”
“But Papa never said anything about bringing us to America while he was alive,” Amina added. “He said it was complicated because of legal issues and paperwork.”
I realized that James had been planning to tell me about his children eventually, but had died before finding the courage to confess his double life. His letter suggested that he’d been preparing to integrate his two families somehow. But his sudden heart attack had left everyone in an impossible situation.
“Uncle Ahmad has been taking care of us since Mama died,” Yasin explained. “But he’s getting old and has health problems. He can’t help us with university applications or visa paperwork for America.”
“The children are good students,” Ahmad said with pride. “Yasin has excellent grades in mathematics and science. Amina speaks four languages and excels in all her subjects.”
“Four languages?” I asked Amina, impressed despite my emotional confusion.
“Arabic, French, English, and Spanish,” she said with a slight smile. “Papa said languages would be important for my medical studies.”
“Amina tutors younger children in our neighborhood,” Yasin added. “She’s very smart and patient with teaching.”
I could see why James had been proud of these children. They were articulate, ambitious, and mature in ways that suggested excellent parenting despite the unusual circumstances of their upbringing.
“Madame Catherine,” Ahmad said carefully, “James left legal documents naming you as the children’s guardian if anything happened to him. But of course, this would only be valid if you choose to accept this responsibility.”
Guardian.
I hadn’t seen that detail in James’ letter, though he’d hinted at legal arrangements.
“Papa made papers with lawyers,” Yasin explained. “He said if something happened to him, you would be our legal guardian so we could come to America for school.”
The magnitude of what James had arranged without consulting me was staggering. He’d legally committed me to becoming the guardian of children I’d never met, assuming that I would accept this responsibility based solely on his letter explaining their existence.
“Did your father discuss this guardianship arrangement with you?” I asked the children.
“Papa said it was just for emergencies,” Amina said. “He said you were very kind and would help us if we needed it, but that he hoped you would never have to worry about us.”
“But Papa died,” Yasin added quietly. “So now we need help, and you’re the only family we have.”
The simple way Yasin stated their situation—that I was their only family—hit me with unexpected emotional force. These children had lost both parents and had nowhere else to turn except to a woman they’d never met who lived on another continent.
“What happens if I can’t take guardianship?” I asked Ahmad.
“The children would remain here with me until I can no longer care for them,” Ahmad said honestly. “After that, they would probably live with distant relatives who cannot afford to support their education.”
“We would miss our chance to go to American universities,” Yasin said matter-of-factly. “The money Papa left would eventually be used for basic living expenses instead of education.”
“Madame Catherine,” Amina said, looking directly at me with James’ eyes, “we don’t want to force you to take care of us. We know this is very difficult for you, learning about us after Papa died. But we hope,”
Yasin added,
“that you might want to help us achieve the dreams that Papa and Mama had for our education.”
I looked at these two remarkable teenagers who were politely asking for their futures while trying not to pressure me into accepting responsibility I’d never agreed to take on. James had put us all in an impossible situation. Them, by making them dependent on a stranger’s goodwill, and me, by committing me to care for children whose existence he’d hidden throughout our marriage.
“I need to understand more about what guardianship would involve,” I said. “The legal requirements, the immigration process, the educational arrangements.”
“I have documents that James prepared,” Ahmad said, standing to retrieve a folder from a cabinet. “Everything is organized for the children to obtain student visas and move to America for their education.”
As Ahmad spread out visa applications, school enrollment forms, and legal guardianship papers, I realized that James had spent years preparing for the possibility that I would need to care for his Moroccan children. Every document was completed except for my signature, every application ready except for my consent.
“Papa was very thorough,” Yasin said, noting my surprise at the extensive paperwork. “He always said that education required careful planning.”
Some secrets, I was discovering, weren’t just about deception. They were about hope and preparation for futures that required courage from people who’d never agreed to the responsibilities being placed on their shoulders.
Looking at Yasin and Amina, I began to understand that James hadn’t just left me a confession about his betrayal. He’d left me the chance to become the mother I’d always wanted to be, even if it meant accepting children who were living proof of his faithlessness.
That night, Ahmad arranged for me to stay in a nearby riad while I processed everything I’d learned about James’ secret family. I lay awake on the traditional Moroccan bed, staring at the geometric patterns on the ceiling and trying to reconcile the man I’d thought I’d known with the father who’d spent fifteen years preparing elaborate documentation to ensure his children’s future education.
The folder Ahmad had shown me contained meticulous planning that revealed a side of James I’d never seen: completed visa applications, researched university programs, financial arrangements that would fund both children’s education through graduate degrees. James had been preparing for years for the possibility that something might happen to him, ensuring that Yasin and Amina would have every opportunity to succeed in America under my guardianship.
But he’d never asked my permission to make me responsible for children whose existence he’d hidden from me for their entire lives.
I returned to the house the next morning to find Yasin and Amina helping Ahmad prepare breakfast, all three of them moving around the kitchen with the easy familiarity of people who’d been living as a family unit. Watching them together, I could see how much the children meant to their elderly guardian and how much they depended on his care and stability.
“Madame Catherine,” Amina said as she served me traditional Moroccan bread, “Uncle Ahmad told us you might want to see our school records and our work. I brought my portfolio from art class.”
“And my mathematics competition certificates,” Yasin added.
They’d prepared presentations of their academic achievements like job applicants trying to convince an employer of their worthiness. I realized these children were essentially interviewing for the chance to have me become their guardian, understanding that their entire future depended on whether I could accept the responsibility James had assigned to me.
“I’d like to see your work,” I said, “but first I want to understand your daily life here. What is your routine? What do you enjoy doing? What worries you?”
Amina and Yasin exchanged glances, apparently not expecting questions about their personal lives rather than their academic qualifications.
“We walk to school together every morning,” Amina said. “It takes twenty minutes, and we practice English conversation during the walk.”
“After school, we help Uncle Ahmad with shopping and housework,” Yasin added. “Then we study for three hours every evening.”
“What about friends? Activities outside school?”
“We have some friends at school,” Amina said carefully. “But we spend most of our time studying because Papa said American universities require excellent grades.”
“We play soccer sometimes with boys from our neighborhood,” Yasin said. “And Amina likes to draw, though she doesn’t have much time for art.”
I realized these children had been living with single-minded focus on academic achievement, sacrificing normal teenage activities because they understood that education was their only path to the future their parents had envisioned for them.
“What worries you most about your current situation?” I asked.
They looked at Ahmad before Yasin answered honestly.
“We worry that Uncle Ahmad is getting too old to take care of us and that we might lose our chance to go to American universities if we don’t have an adult guardian who understands the application processes.”
“We worry that we’ll disappoint Papa by not achieving the dreams he had for us,” Amina added quietly.
“And we worry,” Yasin said, looking directly at me, “that you might not want to become our guardian because we represent painful reminders of Papa’s secrets.”
The mature way they articulated their concerns revealed how much thought they’d given to their precarious situation and how clearly they understood that their futures depended entirely on my decision.
“Can I ask you something difficult?” I said.
They nodded seriously.
“How do you feel about your father having two families? About him being married to me while he was also Fatima’s partner?”
Amina looked at Yasin, who seemed to be the designated spokesperson for sensitive topics.
“Papa explained that he loved both you and Mama, but in different ways,” Yasin said carefully. “He said that you were his wife and partner in America and that Mama was his companion and the mother of his children in Morocco.”
“Papa said that sometimes good people make complicated choices because life doesn’t give them simple options,” Amina added.
“Did you ever feel confused or upset about this arrangement?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” Amina admitted, “especially when other children at school asked about why our father lived in another country. But Papa always made it clear that he loved us and that he was working to give us the best possible future.”
“We understood that his life was complicated,” Yasin said, “but we never doubted that he cared about us.”
I felt struck by their maturity in discussing a family situation that would challenge most adults’ understanding of loyalty and love. James had apparently raised them to accept complexity without bitterness, to focus on his devotion rather than his deception.
“Madame Catherine,” Amina said hesitantly, “may we ask you something difficult?”
“Of course.”
“Are you angry at Papa for having us? Do you wish we didn’t exist?”
The question hit me like a physical blow, forcing me to confront feelings I’d been avoiding since reading James’ letter. Was I angry? Did I wish these children didn’t exist?
“I’m angry at your father for lying to me for fifteen years,” I said honestly. “I’m hurt that he shared the experience of being a parent with someone else while watching me grieve our inability to have children.”
They listened without defending James, apparently understanding that my pain was legitimate, even if it complicated their hopes for guardianship.
“But I’m not angry at you,” I continued. “You didn’t choose this complicated situation, and you’re not responsible for the choices your father made.”
“Do you think you could ever forgive Papa enough to help us?” Yasin asked.
I looked at these two intelligent, thoughtful teenagers who were asking for forgiveness on behalf of their dead father while hoping I might become the guardian they desperately needed.
“I think forgiveness is complicated,” I said. “But I also think that whether I can forgive your father is separate from whether I can care about your futures.”
“Does that mean you might consider becoming our guardian?”
I thought about my life in Connecticut. The empty house, the quiet routines, the careful predictability that had defined my existence since James’ death. Then I looked at Yasin and Amina, these remarkable young people who needed guidance, support, and love from someone who understood the value of education and the importance of pursuing dreams despite complicated circumstances.
“I think it means we should spend more time together so I can understand what kind of guardian you need and whether I’m capable of providing it.”
Some decisions, I was learning, required more than forgiveness or anger. They required the courage to embrace possibilities that arrived disguised as impossible complications. And some children were worth considering even when they came attached to betrayals too painful to fully process.
I spent the next three days living as part of their household, observing how Yasin and Amina navigated their daily lives while Ahmad graciously included me in their family routines. What I discovered was a home filled with love, respect, and quiet determination despite the losses they’d all endured.
“Madame Catherine, would you like to see our neighborhood school?” Amina asked on my third morning in Marrakesh. “We could walk there together like we do every day.”
The twenty-minute walk to their school revealed more about their characters than any academic portfolio could have shown. Yasin helped elderly neighbors carry groceries. Amina stopped to pet stray cats. And both children greeted shop owners and street vendors with genuine warmth that suggested deep community connections.
“We like living here,” Yasin explained as we walked past the morning markets. “But we know our educational opportunities are limited compared to American universities.”
“Papa always said that loving your home doesn’t mean you can’t dream of expanding your world,” Amina added.
At their school, I met teachers who spoke about both children with unmistakable affection and respect. Yasin’s mathematics teacher described him as exceptional, with problem-solving abilities that exceeded grade-level expectations. Amina’s science teacher said she asked questions that challenged even university-level concepts.
“They are serious students,” the principal told me in French. “But they are also kind children who help their classmates and volunteer for community service projects.”
“What community service do you do?” I asked as we walked home.
“We teach French to younger children,” Amina explained. “And Yasin helps repair bicycles for families who can’t afford professional mechanics.”
“I learned bike repair from Papa,” Yasin said proudly. “He said practical skills were as important as academic knowledge.”
That afternoon, Ahmad took me aside for a private conversation while the children studied in their room.
“Madame Catherine, I must tell you something important about these children that goes beyond their academic abilities.”
“What do you mean?”
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