“I know.”
Something about the way she said it made my stomach tighten.
She turned the photograph over.
On the back were two different kinds of handwriting.
The first belonged to Mom.
Amani. Six days old.
Underneath, in faded blue ink, someone had written:
The baby Margaret needed more than me.
Mom’s knees buckled.
I caught her.
“No.”
Helen immediately came around the counter.
Mom stared at the words.
“No, no, no.”
“Mom?”
“That isn’t what happened.”
She pressed the photograph against her chest.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
The manager brought over a chair.
Mom sat down.
The store continued around us.
Carts rattled.
Registers beeped.
People walked past.
But register six had become its own little world.
Helen crouched beside her.
Mom looked at me.
“When I was pregnant with you, things were difficult.”
She took a shaky breath.
“I was sick constantly.”
I knew that part.
“Your father was working two jobs. We were behind on bills. The refrigerator broke.”
She looked at Helen.
“And Anna needed new shoes.”
Helen was crying now.
“Anna’s father, Robert, offered to take her for the summer.”
“You said no?” I asked.
“Immediately.”
Mom looked down.
“Until one night.”
She had been exhausted.
Sick.
Scared.
After Anna went to bed, Mom sat at the kitchen table and cried.
“I told your father I didn’t know how I was going to manage once the baby arrived.”
She squeezed my hand.
“And I said…”
Her voice cracked.
“I don’t know how I’m going to manage both of them.”
Helen inhaled sharply.
“Mom heard you.”
Margaret looked up.
“What?”
Helen nodded.
“She told me.”
My mother went completely still.
“The next morning,” she whispered, “Anna said she wanted to live with her father.”
Helen nodded.
