my heart jumped.
One afternoon, Nora sent me a photograph.
Ellie was sitting on the living room rug surrounded by colorful blocks.
Her dark hair was tied into two crooked pigtails.
Ellie insisted on doing her own hair today, Nora wrote.
I enlarged the picture.
She was smiling proudly.
I traced the outline of her face with my eyes.
Her cheeks.
Her curls.
That tiny dimple.
My throat tightened.
I wanted to drive to Nora’s house immediately.
Instead, I called her.
“How is she?”
“Good. She’s asking when Auntie Claire
