And if Margaret was the same woman I’d once called Aunt Maggie, I needed to understand why my mother had kept her identity from me.
When I returned home, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of water.
The black suitcase was beside her chair.
She looked
up.
“You opened it.”
I stopped.
“Yes.”
Her expression turned disappointed.
“Laura, those are private things.”
“I know, Mom, and I’m sorry. But I was worried about you. You came home looking unwell, and nothing you’ve told me makes sense.”
“You should have asked.”
“I did ask. Several times.”
She lowered her eyes.
I sat across from her.
“Mom, who is Aunt Maggie?”
Her face changed immediately.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“I remember her.”
Mom remained silent.
“The woman who taught me to bake. The woman who lived in the white house.”
I took out the photograph.
“Margaret is Aunt Maggie, isn’t she?”
After a long pause, Mom nodded.
