They were Frank’s eyes.
The same deep-set blue eyes my daughter had inherited.
Barry leaned closer to the door.
“Rachel, Frank’s family was told that Emma died before she was born.”
I slammed the door.
The chain rattled violently against the wooden frame.
For a moment, I stood frozen with both palms pressed against the door, struggling to breathe.
“Mom?” Emma whispered behind me. “What did he mean?”
I couldn’t answer.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, Barry had been sitting beside a brick wall, sharing his last piece of bread with his dog.
Now he knew my name.
He knew Frank’s name.
And somehow, he knew that someone had erased my daughter from her own family.
To understand how we arrived at that moment, I have to go back to the previous morning.
It had begun with a wet sock.
For illustrative purposes only
Part Two: Emma’s Last Few Dollars
I was sitting at our scratched kitchen table, carefully flattening a handful of crumpled bills.
