It Was Never a Gift

Adele had been twenty-six then, and had not fully understood.

She understood now, lying in a hospital bed with her newborn son on her chest and a surrender document bleeding its yellow highlighter across the blanket.

Her grandmother had not left her an asset.

Her grandmother had left her a key, and told her, across the years, that a day would come when she would know exactly which door it opened.

That day was today.

Adele thought about Georgiana a great deal in that hospital bed, more than she thought about her own parents standing three feet away.