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”

carried that exact birthmark.

My sister, Joan.

The sister I’d buried eight years earlier.

The sister whose daughter I’d raised since Ruth was one year old.

My sister, Joan.

The woman in the next cubicle grabbed her beach bag and hurried out.

I shoved our curtain aside before I’d even gotten both sandals on.

“Stay with Andy,” I told Ruth.

My boyfriend would continue reading …