“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think you’d remember her.”
“Why wouldn’t I remember someone who took care of me?”
Mom’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because you were so young.”
I placed the photograph between us.
“Then
tell me what happened.”
She looked at the picture for a long time.
Finally, she began.
“Your father had just left us. You were four years old. I was working two jobs, and I didn’t know how I was going to manage.”
I knew my father had left when I was little.
But Mom had rarely discussed the difficulties that followed.
She always made those years sound manageable.
“Margaret lived nearby,” she continued. “She offered to look after you while I worked evenings.”
I stared at her.
“She took care of me?”
Mom nodded.
“Sometimes you stayed at her house until late. On particularly difficult nights, you slept there.”
“For how long?”
“Almost two years.”
