Dad shook his head.
“I don’t remember.”
Memory becomes strange at seventy-nine.
Whole decades remain bright.
Entire years vanish.
Dad remembered the exact price of lumber in 1978 but could not remember whether Mom had ever mentioned a tin box under an apple tree.
Claire placed the photograph beside Rebecca’s notebook.
“She knew Grandma loved her.”
Dad looked at her.
“How?”
“Because they talked about it.”
He stared.
“Rebecca asked her?”
“Eventually.”
Claire opened the notebook.
“She wrote about their last conversation.”
She found the page.
Mom asked Grandma why she gave her away.
Grandma told her the truth.
Not a cleaned-up truth.
Not the version people tell when they want forgiveness.
She said she was scared.
She said Grandpa wanted to keep the baby.
She said she believed she was ruining everyone’s life.
Then Mom asked whether she regretted it.
Grandma said:
“Every day, and not every day.”
