“She was my sister’s daughter,” Mom said, eyes glued to the photograph.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Her mother died when Anna was six. Her father was working away most of the time then, so Anna came to live with me.”
“At first I thought I was taking care of her because my sister couldn’t anymore. Somewhere along the way, she just became mine too.”
“For how long?”
“Almost six years.”
Six years.
I’d known my mother all my life, and somehow there had been an entire child in her life I’d never known about.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Mom seemed lost in thought and didn’t answer. Helen was watching her.
“Mom talked about you.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Don’t.”
“She did.”
“Please.”
“I think you need to hear this.”
Helen reached into the box again.
This time she took out another photograph.
Mom holding a newborn baby. I recognized the yellow blanket immediately.
I’d seen that picture in our family album.
“That’s me,” I said.
Helen looked at me.
“I know.”
Something about the way she said it made my stomach tighten.
She turned the photograph over. There were two different kinds of handwriting on the back.
One was Mom’s.
“Amani. Six days old.”
Underneath it, in faded blue ink, someone else had written, “The baby Margaret needed more than me.”
Mom’s knees nearly gave out.
I caught her arm.
“No.”
Helen looked startled.
Mom took the photograph.
“No, no, no.”
“Mom?”
“That’s not what it meant.”
She pressed the picture against her chest. “That’s never what it meant.”
Helen pulled a chair from behind the service counter.
Mom sat.
People were still shopping around us. Carts rattled past. Registers beeped.
The manager quietly offered us his office.
Mom shook her head.
“No. Please. I need to hear this now.”
But register six had become its own little world.
Mom stared at the photograph.
