“So?”
“She also described the woman with her.”
I frowned.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She said you looked exactly like someone in an old photograph our mother kept for more than forty years.”
My mouth went dry.
“What photograph?”
Thomas slowly lowered the envelope onto the porch.
“I’ll step back.”
He did.
Ten feet.
Then fifteen.
I opened the door only far enough to retrieve it.
The envelope was heavy.
No money.
I checked immediately.
Documents.
Photographs.
Letters.
Ellie hurried toward me.
“Is that treasure too?”
“No, sweetheart.”
Thomas smiled from the walkway.
“Good morning, Ellie.”
She waved.
“Hi.”
Then she whispered to me much too loudly, “He looks like a lawyer.”
Thomas laughed.
“I am a lawyer.”
Ellie looked pleased with herself.
I was less amused.
I held up the envelope.
“What am I looking for?”
“The photograph is on top.”
I opened it.
The first image showed four young women standing outside what appeared to be a hospital.
The picture was faded around the edges.
Late seventies, perhaps.
Three women were unfamiliar.
The fourth made my heart stop.
Me.
At twenty-six years old.
Long hair.
Wide-collared blouse.
A skirt I had sewn myself.
I stared.
I had not seen that photograph in decades.
Ellie pointed.
“That’s you!”
“Yes.”
“You had really big hair.”
“That was fashionable.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Thomas tried not to smile.
I turned the photograph over.
Four names were written on the back.
Margaret Ellis.
Rose Bennett.
Helen Brooks.
Dorothy Quinn.
I knew every one.
Or had.
Forty-four years earlier.
Before marriage.
Before my daughter.
Before Ellie.
Before grief rearranged everything.
I looked at Thomas.
“Rose Bennett was your mother?”
He nodded.
“She died six years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
My legs felt weak.
I stepped inside.
Then stopped.
Thomas remained on the walkway.
For a moment, I considered leaving him there.
Then I looked at Ellie.
She had already pulled one of the dining chairs closer to inspect the envelope.
Whatever this was, I wanted answers.
“You can come in.”
“Thank you.”
“But leave the envelope where I can see it.”
“Of course.”
He entered slowly.
Our house suddenly felt very small.
The wallpaper near the hall had begun peeling.
A bucket sat beneath a ceiling stain because the roof leaked when rain came from the east.
My husband, George, had always promised to repair that section properly.
Then he became sick.
