his face, but he nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He had brought a photo album. His hands trembled as he opened it.
“This was your mother,” he said.
The first photo stole the air from my lungs.
Not a little. Not in the vague way relatives sometimes resemble each other. She had Claire’s mouth, my chin, our eyes. She stood in a yellow dress beside a lake,continue reading …
