When we reached the lake house, Alexander stopped at the curb and waited while I got out.
“Thank you for letting me attend,” he said.
“You needed to hear the information yourself.”
“I did.”
I turned toward the house.
“Claire,” he said, then stopped.
I waited.
He seemed to reconsider whatever he had meant to say.
“Please let Daniel know if you need anything from me for the next appointment.”
“I will.”
He nodded once and got back into his car.
For the first time since the auction, I watched him drive away without feeling that I needed to run from him.
That night, I searched my mother’s old desk for anything that might help me understand the
photograph.
There were envelopes from the clinic, recipe cards, and bundles of letters tied with faded ribbon.
I did not find the original photograph’s negative or a matching note.
But at the bottom of the drawer, behind a packet of sewing patterns, lay a small address book with my mother’s handwriting on the cover.
