said a word.
Beside him stood a woman I had never seen before, though something about her felt familiar. She was slender, dark-haired, and holding a small child against her hip. The child’s face was turned away from the camera, one tiny hand gripping the woman’s blouse.
Emma stared at the woman as if the room had disappeared.
“Who is she?” I asked.
My voice sounded distant even to myself.
Emma’s lips parted, but no answer came. She turned the photograph over again, as though the six words on the back might rearrange themselves into something less impossible.
For Emma, when she finally comes home.
Margaret stepped forward.
“Enough,” my mother said quietly.
There was no performance in her voice now. No polished elegance, no wounded pride. Just fear. Plain and sharp.
Emma looked at her. “You knew about this.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to the photograph.
