I couldn’t decide whether I felt anger, sadness, or simply exhaustion over all the years that could never be recovered.
Jennifer took the photograph to be framed.
When
she returned a few days later, she placed it on my mantel.
I protested immediately.
“Why would you want that displayed here?”
Lizzie shrugged.
“Because it’s true.”
Jennifer adjusted the frame until it was straight.
I looked again.
At Graham.
At his children.
At Kayla.
At the twins.
At myself.
For twenty years, Kayla had created a story in which she had been part of her daughters’ lives.
She had apparently described birthdays that never happened.
Visits she’d never made.
Phone calls she’d never placed.
She had built an imaginary motherhood because imaginary children never asked where she’d been.
But Jennifer and Lizzie had grown up.
Not because time magically repaired what Kayla had done.
They grew because someone stayed.
