“It is staying in the family.”

“Not the proper family.”

Richard’s expression changed then, not to anger but to disappointment.

“Victoria,” he said, “she is your daughter.”

Mom turned away.

I watched the black bags swing against her skirt.

Seventeen years ago she’d placed two similar bags on Grandpa’s porch.

Everything I owned at five had fit inside them: three changes of clothes, a stuffed rabbit with one loose ear, and a pair of shoes that hurt my feet.