“Where did you get that?”
“It was Frank’s.”
“No — his is at my house. I have it.”
“He had two, dear,” Caroline said gently.
Beneath the cutters was a photograph. She lifted it out and handed it to me with both hands, like it was something fragile.
A little girl stood beside a kitchen table, grinning down at a plate of star-shaped apple pancakes. She couldn’t have been more than five. Frank stood behind her, younger, thinner, and happier than I had ever once seen him in my life.
“Who is she?”
Caroline’s voice shook. “Her name was Miley.”
The room seemed to tilt around that single word.
“Frank was married before your mother,” she went on. “Miley was his daughter.”
My fingers dug into the edges of the photo. “Where is she now?”
Caroline’s eyes dropped. “She died. She was five.”
The words landed soft, which somehow made them land harder.
