“Rose, we need to talk. That photo… the baby. Who was she?”
“Sit, sweetheart. I suppose you’re ready for some of it now.”
I could hear the rain drumming on the old roof. Rose gazed into her lap, collecting the words like broken beads.
“We were just kids ourselves, Harold and I. Wild, stupid kids. We thought we could make it work. But life… doesn’t care about love when there’s nothing else to hold you together.”
“So the baby… she was yours? Yours and Sloan’s?”
Rose explored, and for a heartbeat, I saw her young — that same softness in the eyes as the woman in the photo.
“She was born in August. 1985. It was such a hot summer. We were living out of his mother’s house back then. No money. No work. Just dreams. We really thought we could raise our daughter right.”
“And you gave her up?”
“We thought a better family could give her what we never could.”
“Mr. Sloan found her, didn’t he?”
“It took him years. He said it was the one thing he had to get right before he passed away. That’s why he moved here. He used to stand by the window, watching you work in the garden. He wanted to tell you so many times. But he was stubborn. Proud. He thought you’d spit in his face for what he did.”
“And you? Why did he leave YOU to me?”
“My body’s failing me. Harold thought… maybe… You and I could still have something. He wrote you a letter. I was supposed to wait until you were ready.”
She pulled a small envelope from her knitting basket.
“So that baby… the girl in the photo… Was that me?”
“You’ve always been my girl.”
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