For years, I believed the nanny had walked out of my life without looking back. When she showed up at my door with an old birthday present, everything I thought I knew about my childhood unraveled.
She stood on my porch holding a birthday present; she was 12 years late in delivering it.
For a second, I thought my brain had imagined her.
She looked older, thinner, and had gray at her temples now.
But I immediately knew those eyes.
She was 12 years late.
“Anna?”
My knees nearly gave out.
She looked at me as if she’d been holding her breath for years.
“Happy birthday, George.”
I stared at the small box in her hands. It was wrapped in faded yellow paper covered with tiny white stars.
The same paper she’d used for my birthdays as a kid.
My knees nearly gave out.
“I never got to give you
