She joined us in the booth and looked from Richard to me.
I placed the photograph in front of her.
Claire examined it.
“That’s my blanket.”
Then she looked at Rose.
Rose placed both palms flat on the table.
They were no longer shaking.
“I was one of your nurses, sweetie,” she said. “When you were very small.”
Claire parted her lips but said nothing.
“You kicked one foot free every night,” Rose continued. “You slept when someone hummed. And you gained three ounces the week before you left, which we celebrated with terrible vending-machine cupcakes.”
Claire touched the embroidered flower.
“You made this?”
Rose nodded.
“Why?” Claire pressed.
The diner seemed to grow quieter around the question.
Rose waited before responding.
“Because I got to love you first. Your parents got to love you forever.”
Claire’s hand went still over the stitching.
She moved around the booth and wrapped both arms around Rose.
For half a second, Rose remained frozen, as though she had spent twenty years training herself not to reach for Claire.
Then she embraced her.
