“What was she like?”
Mrs. Hale smiled instantly. “Stubborn.” Then, “Funny.” Then, “Far too generous for her own good.”
For the next hour, she told stories I’d never heard, about road trips, terrible apartments, bad decisions, big dreams.
For the first time in my life, my mother felt real. Not a photograph, not a memory, but a person.
When the evening ended, I expected answers. Instead, Mrs. Hale stood and walked to a bookshelf. She pulled out a framed photograph.
It showed her and my mother standing beside an old sedan.
For a moment, she stared at it.
Then her expression changed. Before I could ask why, she put the photograph away.
Then she hugged me, longer than usual, and said goodnight.
The mystery only grew. If she knew my mother, why wait ten years to tell me?
The following birthday brought no answers. Neither did the one after that.
Whenever I asked questions about my mother, Mrs. Hale answered them. Whenever I asked questions about her, she changed the subject. The more comfortable we became, the more obvious it grew that she was hiding something, not out of malice, but out of fear.
