Helen placed it beside our groceries.
“My mother died seven months ago,” she said.
Mom’s face softened. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Her name was Anna.”
Mom’s wallet slipped from her hand.
It hit the floor.
I bent to pick it up, but Mom didn’t move.
“What did you say?”
Helen’s eyes filled.
“Anna.”
Mom grabbed the edge of the counter.
I had never heard that name before.
Helen reached across the register.
“Margaret, my mother spent most of her life wondering what happened to you.”
“She found a photograph of you years ago. Older than the ones she had as a girl. She kept it beside this box.”
Helen shook her head. “I knew your face before I knew you.”
Mom made a sound I had never heard from her before.
Not quite a sob.
Not quite a word.
Then she whispered, “Anna had a daughter?”
Helen nodded.
“I’m her daughter.”
