"I turned to my mother and asked if she'd ever had a miscarriage. She raised her eyebrows in surprise. I'd caught her off guard. Why would you ask that?" "I don't know." "Did you go through my things?" Blood rushed to my face. My heart beat quickened. "You did, didn't you?" "I didn't. I swear. It's another one of those things. Like the lamp. Like the water stain. "I never had a miscarriage," my mother said. I turned back to the window. The girls--one in pink, one in yellow--were across the road now, straddling their matching bikes. They looked up and waved. The sky rumbled. I closed the window. "Sometimes you scare me, Eleanor." My mother went back to her box. Digging. Poking. Searching for something. "Is this what you're talking about? She handed over two grainy, black-and-white photos on thin, filmy paper. I'd seen them before. I knew them, had held them. "I was pr...
Sharing Musings, Essays, and Words that Matter! Home of Gabby! Sister Blog to Book Readers Heaven!