She swallowed.
“Claire.”
“How long have you known I existed?”
She closed her eyes.
“Six years.”
I almost drove off the road.
I pulled into an empty parking area so sharply that she grabbed the door.
“Six years?”
“Yes.”
“You remembered me six years ago?”
“Enough to know who you were.”
“Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“You knew we were alive.”
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
The miracle disappeared.
Not completely.
But something darker moved into its place.
“You knew we thought you were dead.”
She started crying.
“Yes.”
I got out of the car.
Cold air hit my face.
Lily stayed inside for a moment.
Then stepped out.
“Claire.”
“Don’t.”
“I can explain.”
“You had six years to explain.”
“I know.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to say that like it covers anything.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I tried.”
“What does that mean?”
“I found Mom and Dad’s old number.”
“It was disconnected.”
“And then?”
“I wrote letters.”
I stared.
“You sent them?”
No answer.
“Lily.”
