I stared at him.
“You know when she was born.”
“I know the year. Tell me the exact date.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
There was something in his voice that made me answer.
“March eighteenth.”
He looked away.
His lips moved as though he were calculating something.
“Stephen?”
He whispered, “That can’t be right.”
“What can’t be right?”
Instead of answering, he asked, “What hospital?”
Now I was angry again.
“Enough.”
He nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
“Who do you think my daughter is?”
He looked toward the hallway.
“I don’t think she’s anybody else.”
“Then what?”
“I recognize her.”
“From where?”
He inhaled.
“From a photograph.”
My stomach tightened.
“What photograph?”
He didn’t answer.
“Stephen.”
“A photograph I saw years ago.”
“Of Lily?”
“No.”
“Then how could—”
He interrupted softly.
“Because she looks exactly like the woman in it.”
The house seemed suddenly too quiet.
I heard the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
