Chapter 4

The photograph was creased at the corners, worn soft from being handled — not recently, but often, over years. It showed a woman in a hospital gown, exhausted and glowing, holding a tiny bundled infant against her chest. The woman in the photo looked younger than the woman standing at the sweetheart table, but the same chestnut hair was there, the same silver bracelet on her wrist.

"Six days old," Mara said, holding the photo out toward Douglas. "She was born on a Tuesday. I was in labor for fourteen hours. When she came out, she had this little tuft of hair — honey-blonde, like yours. The nurse said she'd never seen a baby born with so much hair."

Douglas stared at the photo. His hand reached out, almost involuntarily, and Mara let him take it.

He looked at the image for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was rough.

"She looks like—"

"Like you," Mara finished. "I know. She has your eyes. She has your stubbornness too. She argued with me for an hour last week about whether or not she needed a jacket, and I felt like I was talking to you in 2016."

Douglas's jaw worked. His thumb moved over the creased edge of the photograph.