coffee table sat an old wooden box filled with photographs, letters, and documents.
“No more lies,” I said.
Margaret nodded.
Then she opened the box.
Inside was a little blue ribbon.
The moment I touched it, an old memory returned.
A woman tying it around my wrist.
A birthday cake.
A warm kiss on my forehead.
“Rebecca gave me this,” I whispered.
“On your seventh birthday,” Margaret confirmed.
She showed us another photograph.
Rebecca sat on a porch holding a baby.
A little girl stood beside her.
It was me.
