The Photograph of a Newborn in a Yellow Knitted Hat
November seventeenth, 2015.
My thumb pressed hard against my collarbone.
November seventeenth was four days after I woke up in the county hospital to an empty plastic bassinet, with Paul holding my hand and telling me our daughter had never taken a breath.
“Is Rebecca this child’s mother?” I asked, my voice shaking in the cold space.
“Is that why he gave her twelve hundred dollars four days after our baby died?”
Sarah looked down at the floorboards, her mouth working silently for three seconds before she spoke.
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