I remembered his expression at the door.
“He says Anna went home crying.”
“She was upset earlier, yes. But she participated. I helped her onto the little stage myself.”
“Can you prove that?”
“I might have something. Let me look.”
Mom lived 20 minutes away. She insisted on coming over rather than explain everything over the phone.
While I waited, I studied the photograph again.
Anna looked happy.
Her arms were slightly raised, and behind her, there was a curtain decorated with paper stars.
At the bottom of the photograph, partly hidden by the fold, I noticed a handwritten number.
“Seven.”
It looked like a photograph numbered in a series.
When Mom arrived, she carried an old envelope filled with pictures.
She placed them across my dining table.
“There,” she said, pointing.
Anna stood on a small platform while several children applauded. My mother was beside her, adjusting the hem of her princess dress.
