Inside was a faded photograph: a bright, laughing young woman with her arms around a girl of about ten.

“This,” I said, and the word came apart in my mouth, “this was my mother.

And she had that exact crescent birthmark on her shoulder.” The woman looked at the photograph.

Then she raised her eyes to the mirror.

And I said the name I had not let myself say aloud in two decades.

“Mom.

Your name is Lucile.”

Chapter 7 — I Don’t Remember This Little Girl