Margaret’s eyes filled, but her voice stayed gentle.
“Who told you I stopped looking?”
Claire’s lips parted.
For one second Margaret thought she might not answer.
Then the name came out.
“Edith.”
Margaret did not move.
Daniel looked from one woman to the other.
“Who’s Edith?”
Margaret’s hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
Claire’s fingers closed protectively around the blue plate.
“My mother.”
Daniel frowned.
“Your mother was named Susan.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“You told me your mother died when you were twelve.”
Claire looked at him.
“She did.”
Daniel shook his head.
“I don’t understand.”
“No,” Margaret said quietly. “Neither do I.”
Claire turned to her.
“Yes, you do.”
Margaret’s expression changed.
The softness left first.
Not kindness.
Not care.
Only the uncertainty.
“No,” she said. “I know an Edith. I do not know whether she is the Edith you mean.”
Claire gave a brittle laugh.
“How many Ediths told foster children that Margaret Ellison didn’t want them anymore?”
Daniel’s head lifted.
Margaret stared at Claire.
The chipped plate trembled in Claire’s hands.
Margaret stepped backward until her hip touched the kitchen table.
She knew then.
“Edith Barlow.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Daniel looked between them.
“Can somebody tell me what’s happening?”
