had never doubted me.
My grandmother June.
Danny had given her my number.
For once, that address slip had done something useful.
I sat down on the kitchen floor.
June filled the silence.
She had received my letter four years earlier.
All of it.
She had read every Christmas card.
Every school photo.
And she had kept them somewhere safe.
I would soon learn where.
“Why didn’t you write back?” I asked.
I hated how small my voice sounded.
Thirty-four suddenly becoming eight.
“Look at my hands, child,” she said,
