I raised my niece on my own — eight years later, she pointed at a woman in the next beach changing cubicle and whispered, “Aunty, look… she has my mark”

had you.”

I stared at her.

Eight years of birthdays, fevers, school forms, and closed-casket grief rose up in my throat.

“No,” I said. “You don’t get to make that sound noble.”

“There was someone else inside, Jess.”

I stared at her.

I blinked. “Who?”

“A friend from work. You never met her. She was new in town, between apartments, and didn’t know anyone there continue reading …