She had intended to meet me. Instead, I had met her daughter.
The cruelest part was that we’d spent 22 years living only a few hours apart without knowing it.
Anna had grown up wondering why her biological mother didn’t want her.
I’d spent 22 years believing my baby had died.
And somewhere in between those two lives was a secret created by people who had decided they knew what was best for everyone else.
Michael sat beside me.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”
“I understand.”
“But thank you for bringing her.”
He nodded.
Eleanor sat beside me and touched Lucy’s tiny hand.
“She has Anna’s fingers.”
I looked closely.
She did.
The same long fingers.
The same little crease beside the thumb that I remembered from the photographs I’d later seen.
I hadn’t known Anna had those hands.
