It was my daughter.
She was standing beside a young child.
The child looked directly into the camera.
And around the child’s neck was a necklace I immediately recognized.
It had belonged to my mother.
My daughter’s grandmother.
She had been buried wearing that necklace—or at least, that’s what I had always believed.
I stepped closer to the photograph.
My hands began to shake.
Then I noticed the date.
The photograph had been taken years before my daughter supposedly left home.
That was impossible.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned around.
My daughter was standing at the end of the hallway.
She looked older than the last time I’d seen her.
But her face was unmistakable.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
“Mom… you weren’t supposed to come here.”
“What Have You Been Hiding From Me?”
