BABY GIRL — MARGARET ELLIS.
Ellis was Mrs. Wilson's maiden name.
My heartbeat quickened.
Had she once had a daughter?
I slipped the photograph carefully back into the envelope.
It felt too personal to examine further without asking her.
But something about it stayed with me.
The baby.
The date.
The white blanket with blue flowers.
And Mrs. Wilson's strange reluctance to discuss her life before marrying George.
I wondered how many stories an eighty-year-old woman could carry without anyone around her ever realizing they existed.
That evening, Marian Vale came to my mother's house.
She arrived carrying a basket of homemade muffins.
Her silver-blond hair was perfectly styled, and she wore a soft lavender cardigan.
She looked like someone who belonged in a church newsletter.
Mom opened the door while I stood behind her.
“Marian,” she said, surprised.
Marian smiled warmly.
“Ruth, sweetheart. I heard about poor Margaret.”
Her expression became sorrowful.
