She wore jeans, a green apron, and the kind of unguarded smile I had once seen almost every day.

On one side stood a little girl with dark curls.

On the other stood a boy holding a watering can, looking directly into the camera.

I stopped breathing for an instant.

The boy had my eyes.

Not merely brown eyes; he had the particular shape of my eyelids, the crooked left eyebrow, the serious expression my mother said had made me look like a tiny businessman at four.

The little girl resembled Hannah, but the boy looked so much like my childhood photographs that I could hardly look away.