“Who told you that?” I asked her.

“Thomas and Martha,” she said.

“The people who raised me.

They were good people, Ona.

They gave me a home on the east side of town and took me to Sunday school every week.”

“Did they ever tell you where you came from?”

“Not until I turned twenty-one,” Sarah said.

She turned toward the altar, and the dimple in her left cheek pressed deep into her skin, exactly like the one I saw in my mirror every morning.