Mrs. Wilson's lips trembled.
“Ruth, there's something I've wanted to tell you for a very long time.”
My mother looked frightened.
“What?”
Mrs. Wilson held out the photograph.
Mom took it.
She studied the young woman standing outside the hospital.
Then the baby picture.
Her expression slowly changed.
“Margaret…”
Mrs. Wilson began crying.
“I was seventeen when she was born.”
Mom stared at her.
“What are you telling me?”
Mrs. Wilson's voice broke.
“I believe you may be my daughter.”
The room became completely silent.
Mom looked from the photograph to Mrs. Wilson.
Then she shook her head.
“No.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“No, that can't be right.”
Mrs. Wilson lowered her eyes.
“I understand.”
Mom backed toward the sofa.
“You've lived next door to me for thirty years.”
Tears streamed down Mrs. Wilson's face.
“I know.”
“You helped me raise Emma.”
“Yes.”
“You were at my husband's funeral.”
