“You wiped my nose until I was five.”
“Seven.”
“Liar.”
We laughed.
Then she cried against me.
“I thought meeting him would tell me something about myself.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
She pulled back.
“That I don't have to become curious enough to make someone family.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
Then we drove to see Rebecca.
She was walking with a cane by then.
Her recovery had exceeded expectations.
Catherine had moved nearby.
Not into Rebecca's house.
Both women had learned enough about boundaries.
They saw each other three times a week.
Argued twice.
Loved each other.
Made up badly.
Normal family.
Emily's relationship with Rebecca grew more slowly.
At first:
phone calls.
Then recipes.
Then old photographs.
Rebecca sent a picture of herself at nineteen.
Emily stared.
“Okay, that's creepy.”
Same eyes.
Same smile.
Then Rebecca showed Emily photographs of Daniel Bell.
Her maternal grandfather.
The man who died searching for her mother.
