Part 1 — The Photograph
David and I had been married for fifteen years.
He would reach for my hand even in sleep.
Then a doctor said stage four and we can only keep him comfortable and the strongest man I knew began fading under hospital blankets.
Even as his body declined something else seemed to weigh on him.
A worry that went deeper than dying.
One evening he handed me a photograph.
A serious-looking teenage girl.
Dark eyes. Careful posture. The expression of someone who had learned to make themselves small.
He said: her name is Grace. Please adopt her before I’m gone.
A chill ran through my hands.
I said: who is she, David? Is she your daughter?
