Six words were written across the back in neat black ink.
Ask your daughter what really happened.
My throat tightened.
Daniel had never met my daughter.
At least, he had never told me he had.
And I had never shown him that photograph.
In fact, I had barely spoken about Michael the previous night.
I had only said that I was widowed.
Daniel had asked how long.
“Six years,” I had told him.
Then he had looked at me with an expression I couldn’t understand and quietly said, “That’s a long time to carry loneliness.”
I had thought he was being kind.
Now I wondered whether every question he had asked me had been deliberate.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and called Emily.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
On the third attempt, she finally picked up.
“Mom?”
Her voice sounded breathless.
Behind her I could hear traffic and the muffled sound of someone speaking.
