The question cut through the air between us.
Joan turned away as though she had been struck.
Ruth’s fingers tightened around my wrist.
“Why does she have the same birthmark as me?”
I crouched in front of her and placed both hands on her shoulders.
“Sweetheart, I need to speak to her first.”
“But is she my mommy?”
My throat closed.
For eight years, I had answered Ruth’s questions about her mother with certainty.
Now, for the first time, I had no idea what the truth was.
“I think she might be,” I admitted.
Ruth’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
I kissed her forehead.
“Go with Andy for a few minutes. Stay where I can see you. I promise I will explain everything as soon as I understand it.”
Andy knelt beside her.
“Come on, kiddo,” he said gently. “We’ll stay close. Your aunt will be able to see us the whole time.”
Reluctantly, Ruth let him lead her away.
When they were far enough that she could not hear us, I faced my sister.
“Start talking.”
The Funeral That Should Never Have Happened
Joan glanced around nervously.
“I can’t do this here.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“You disappeared for eight years and appeared beside your daughter in a beach changing room. You lost the right to choose the setting.”
“Jess—”
“No. You let me bury you.”
My voice shook as the memories came rushing back.
Eight years earlier, Joan had taken Ruth to stay at an old farmhouse for the weekend.
Joan had been twenty-six then. She was young, overwhelmed, and too proud to admit when she needed help.
During the night, the farmhouse caught fire.
Ruth was found nearly fifty yards away from the building, sitting in the grass beside the family dog and crying for her mother.
No one understood how a one-year-old child had traveled that distance alone.
A body was discovered inside the burned house.
The authorities told us it was Joan.
The damage had been too severe for an ordinary identification, and the casket had remained closed.
I buried my sister on a cold, gray morning.
Then I went home with her baby.
For weeks, Ruth woke crying for her mother. She reached toward every woman who had hair like Joan’s.
I could not give her the person she wanted, so I gave her everything else I had.
My time.
My home.
My patience.
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