Age 9.
Then 10.
11.
12.
Some were birthday cards.
Some plain envelopes.
She looked at Margaret.
“Can I read them?”
“They were written for you.”
Claire opened the one marked 8.
Inside was a simple card with a cartoon cake.
Margaret watched Claire’s eyes move across the words.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope someone is making you something chocolate today. I still have your plate. I still think of you when I make eggs. I hope you are safe. Love, Miss Margaret.
Claire closed her eyes.
Daniel turned away.
She opened another.
Then another.
By the fourth, she was crying too hard to continue.
Margaret moved around the table.
This time she did not stop herself.
She put one hand on Claire’s shoulder.
Claire leaned into her.
Not like a daughter-in-law.
Not like a little girl either.
Like a woman who had been carrying a wound so long she had built a life around it.
Daniel sat across from them.
His own eyes were red.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about her?” he asked his mother.
Margaret looked at him.
“I did.”
He frowned.
“When?”
“When you were twenty.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were home for Christmas. I told you I had lost a foster child I had hoped to adopt.”
Daniel stared at her.
“You didn’t tell me her name.”
“I probably did.”
He lowered his eyes.
Margaret knew the truth.
