My mother was younger in it.s. Her hair was still dark, pulled back from her face in the neat twist she wore whenever she wanted to look respectable. She was sitting in a hospital chair, holding a newborn wrapped in a pale yellow blanket.
On the back, in faded blue ink, someone had written:
September 1987.
Hannah and Douglas.
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“I don’t understand.”
Lucas stood beside the chair, his face pale.
Douglas made a soft sound from the bed.
“Hannah…”
I looked at him.
“No.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “Not yet. Lucas just said there was a reason you never stopped searching for me. Now I’m looking at a photograph of my mother holding a baby, and our names are written on the back.”
I held it up.
“Tell me what this means.”
Lucas glanced at his father.
Douglas closed his eyes.
