When Diane came downstairs an hour later, she looked composed as ever. But that changed the moment she saw the coffee table. A small, framed photograph sat at its center. It showed a man and a woman seated on a picnic blanket with their arms around a smiling three-year-old girl in a yellow sundress.
Diane’s hand trembled as she reached for it. “Where did you get this?”
I straightened slowly, dusting cloth still in my hand. “You tell me.”
“That’s— That’s my niece,” she stammered.
“Your sister’s daughter,” I said quietly. “The one you said was wild and ungrateful.”
She looked up sharply, her breath catching. “You… how did you—?”
“Because that little girl was me.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. The only sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of an ornate clock behind her. Finally, she whispered, “No… no… that can’t be.”
“It can,” I said evenly. “And it is.”
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