“An eleven-year-old child doesn’t belong to a stranger because of an old photograph.”

“A piece of paper doesn’t make you a mother,” I said.

“Under the laws of Pennsylvania, it does,” Rebecca said, undoing the second button on her coat.

“I raised Lily for four thousand days while you tended a flower bed in a cemetery.”

“Did you tell her the truth about St.

Jude’s?” I asked.

“Does she know you stole her from the nursery?”

“She knows what she needs to know,” Rebecca said, shutting the storm door.