Our mother had died when Clare was young.
Dad remarried Margaret three years later.
Clare turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
Mom’s handwriting.
My knees nearly gave way.
I read it beneath the terrace light.
My girls.
If they ever forget how much they belong to each other, remind them.
I couldn’t breathe.
Clare was crying.
“I found it with the letters.”
I looked at her.
“She knew.”
“She knew us.”
For fifteen years, Dad had tried to define family as obedience.
Mom had left behind a different definition.
Belonging.
I touched the photograph.
“Can I keep it?”
Clare shook her head.
My heart dropped.
Then she smiled.
“You get the original.”
She reached into the box again.
“I made myself a copy.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
Then did both at once.
Clare leaned her head against my shoulder.
Inside, the music softened.
Through the glass doors, I could see Dad sitting alone at table one.
