“Yes.”
“Who is your father?”
“My name is Claire.”
Where you got that photograph?
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I know.”
“Then answer it.”
She took a breath. “I think I’m your sister.”
I remember thinking, What else could she possibly tell me?
Quite a lot, apparently.
My name is Claire.
I laughed, though nothing about it was funny.
“No.”
“Rachel…”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Our father’s name is Thomas.”
Mom had said that name exactly once.
I think I’m your sister.
I grabbed the porch railing. “How do you know about me?”
“I’ve known your name for three years. After my mother died, I found letters and photographs.”
“Then why did you act like you didn’t know me at the store?”
“Because I didn’t. Not at first.”
I stared at her.
Mom had said that name exactly once.
“I knew your name and that you lived somewhere around here. Then you told me your last name, and I realized why your face looked familiar.”
“So yesterday was an accident?”
“Walking into your checkout line? Yes.”
“And the money?”
Claire sighed. “My card got declined. I’d just moved here with the twins, and almost everything I had was tied up in the move.”
Your face looked familiar.
“So you really were eight dollars short?”
“Embarrassingly, yes. Dad sent me some money the next morning, so I came back to pay you.”
“And you just happened to have my childhood picture?”
“No. I went home and found it after I realized who you were.”
“Why didn’t you just come back and talk to me?”
I had was tied up in the move.
Claire glanced down. “Because telling a stranger at work that you might be her sister seemed like a terrible idea.”
“Fair.”
“Dad had been asking me to find you. I just never expected you to find me first.”
“Some of those photographs were mine?”
