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By 50, we told ourselves we’d made peace with it.
Then a neighbor, Mrs. Collins, mentioned a little girl at the children’s home who’d been there since birth.
“No one comes back. Folks call, ask for a photo, then disappear.”
“She has a large birthmark on her face,” she said. “Covers most of one side.
People see it and decide it’s too hard.”
That night I brought it up to Thomas. I expected him to say we were too old, too settled, too late.
He listened, then said, “You can’t stop thinking about her.”
“I can’t,” I admitted. “She’s been waiting her whole life.”
“We’re not young,” he said.
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