I took the photo.
And everything stopped.
It showed a little girl — about six — standing beside a woman in a white apron, sunlight glowing around them.
I recognized the place instantly.
My childhood pool.
And the woman…
“Martha?” I whispered.
Claire nodded. “She’s my mother.”
It hit me all at once.
Martha — our housekeeper. The woman who used to sneak me cookies, sit beside me when I was sick, and comfort me when no one else did.
“You’re okay, baby. I’m right here.”
Those words echoed in my memory.
“She was fired,” I said hoarsely. “My mother accused her of stealing a bracelet.”
Claire’s voice tightened. “She didn’t steal anything. Your mother found it later — but never told anyone. By then, my mom’s reputation was destroyed. No one would hire her.”
