I remembered someone teaching me to roll pastry dough.
And I remembered feeling completely safe.
I walked up to the door and knocked.
A middle-aged man answered.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. Did a woman named Margaret once live in this house?”
He nodded.
“Yes. She owned it before us.”
“Do you know where she went?”
He
v
shook his head.
“I’m afraid not. That was quite a long time ago.”
I showed him the photograph.
He studied it carefully.
“Is that you as a little girl?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“I wish I could help you find her.”
I thanked him and returned to my car.
Then I looked again at the digital photographs.
The brick house where Mom had been photographed had a clearly visible street number.
I compared it with the address printed on the luggage tag.
They matched.
The address was about three hours away.
That had to be where Mom had spent the week.
