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”

It wasn’t similar.

It was identical.

A small butterfly shape on the outside of her calf.

Ruth spotted it first.

It was identical.

I was helping her pull a clean T-shirt over her damp hair when she went suddenly still, the shirt caught halfway over her nose.

“Aunty Jess,” she whispered.

“What, baby?”

She pointed through the narrow continue reading …