Then she forced a smile and changed the subject.
Months later, while cleaning my apartment, I found the only photograph I had of my mother, Julia. The woman who died when I was seven.
I stared at the picture, then sat down, because suddenly I knew why the woman in Mrs. Hale’s album had looked familiar.
It was my mother.
The next birthday, I brought the photograph. The moment Mrs. Hale saw it, she froze completely.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke. Then she whispered, “Julia.”
My heart started pounding.
She hadn’t needed an explanation. She knew exactly who she was looking at. That’s when I realized something. Mrs. Hale hadn’t approached me by accident ten years earlier. She had known exactly who I was all along.
“You knew her.” It wasn’t a question.
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
I waited. She stared at the photograph, then back at me. “Julia was my best friend.”
I had spent most of my life knowing almost nothing about my mother, and now someone who had loved her was sitting across from me.
