I could almost picture myself standing at a kitchen counter with flour scattered across the surface.
But the memory was so old that I couldn’t place it.
Next, I picked up the camera.
Its battery was nearly empty.
There were only four photographs stored on it.
The first showed Mom outside a modest brick house.
In the second, she sat beside an elderly woman resting in bed.
The third showed a handwritten schedule attached to a refrigerator.
It contained meal times, medication reminders, and notes about
helping someone move safely around the house.
Then I opened the fourth photograph.
And everything changed.
It was a picture of an older printed photograph.
A woman stood outside a small white house, holding a toddler dressed in a yellow sweater.
I recognized that child immediately.
It was me.
I must have been around four years old.
But what truly startled me was the woman holding my hand.
I knew her face.
“Aunt Maggie,” I whispered.
