But when I pulled my hand free, a photograph came out with it.
It dropped facedown onto the rug.
I picked it up automatically.
Then I stopped.
The photograph was old enough that the colors had started fading along the edges. A group of children sat on what appeared to be a library floor, each holding a book.
Near one end of the row sat a skinny boy with uneven brown hair and a missing front tooth.
Me.
Eight years old, maybe nine.
I knew immediately because I remembered that horrible striped shirt. My mother had insisted it made me look “handsome.”
I had never given Claire a childhood photograph of me.
Beside me stood a girl about the same age wearing purple glasses.
I turned the picture over.
Written in faded blue ink were the words:
