became complicated. She stood near the sink, staring at her reflection in the dark window.
For one terrible second, I thought of her washing pots the night before.
Then she turned and saw me.
“I’m not cleaning,” she said gently.
“I know.”
A faint smile touched her mouth.
“Good.”
I crossed the kitchen slowly. “How are you standing?”
She looked at the photograph in her hand.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe because part of me has been waiting for this without knowing it.”
I leaned against the counter beside her.
“Your mother was beautiful.”
Emma looked down at Clara’s face. “I used to imagine her differently every year. Sometimes blond. Sometimes tall. Sometimes with glasses. When you don’t have a picture, you make one.”
Her thumb brushed the edge of the photo.
“Now I have this, and I feel grateful and angry at the same time.”
