a photograph.
After we returned home, it took me a long time to forgive Robert.
And Elizabeth and I began meeting every week.
Today, that photograph sits in our living room.
And whenever my grandchildren ask who the white-haired woman standing beside us is, I answer:
“That’s the woman I believed was dead for 53 years. But in reality, she gave me life twice: the first time by saving me, and the second time by coming back into my life.”
Sometimes the most painful secrets are kept not out of hatred, but out of love. But no one should ever take away our right to know the truth.
