His hand stayed over the portrait hidden beneath his shirt.
“Yes… and I was wrong. But I never wanted to forget that our family was built on kindness that began before we ever arrived.”
“But you let me believe she was imaginary.”
The truth hurt more because Richard did not try to soften it.
Rose reached into a canvas bag beside her and removed a cream blanket.
Claire’s coming-home blanket.
I recognized the faded satin border, the small stain near one corner, and the loose thread Claire used to rub between her fingers whenever she was tired.
“Why do you have that?” I asked.
“When Richard recognized me the day you brought Claire home, we stayed in touch with an occasional Christmas card every few years. Last week he brought me the blanket because he remembered I was the one who stitched it.”
I lifted the blanket.
A tiny rose had been embroidered near the hem.
