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”

dead.”

“Jess?” he called.

“Take Ruth down to the water,” I said. “Go build sandcastles, baby. Andy will make you mermaids.”

Ruth grabbed my wrist. “Is that lady my mommy? Why does she have my birthmark?”

The questions dropped between us like shattered glass.

Joan made a small sound and turned away.

“Is that lady my mommy?”

I crouched down in front of Ruth continue reading …