She climbed into my lap.
Children are strange anchors.
You can be contemplating secrets spanning generations, and then a four-year-old puts her cold feet against your legs and asks for cereal.
Life returns to its proper scale.
I made breakfast.
I packed Lily’s bag for preschool.
I braided her hair.
All the while, I kept seeing Claire’s face.
At eight fifteen, Stephen called.
I answered immediately.
“Did you find it?”
There was silence.
“Anna.”
“Did you find the photograph?”
“Not yet.”
“I did.”
Another silence.
“What?”
“I have one.”
I heard him inhale.
“Where did you get it?”
“My father left it for me.”
“Anna—”
“Claire Bell was my sister.”
Nothing.
Then Stephen said, “You knew?”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“Oh.”
That single syllable somehow hurt more than disbelief.
“I was five when whatever happened happened. Apparently my entire family decided to erase her.”
“Are you alone?”
“Lily’s at preschool.”
