I stared at my daughter.
Melissa’s eyes filled.
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of everything.”
She touched the side of her head.
“You remember seven years clearly. I don’t. When Calvin came the first time, I knew his face before I knew why. Then he showed me pictures.”
She paused.
“You. Mom. Ava.”
At the mention of Dorothy, Melissa closed her eyes.
“I couldn’t understand that Mom was gone. I couldn’t understand that Ava wasn’t a baby anymore. Every photograph felt like someone was showing me a life belonging to another woman and insisting I was her.”
Dr. Foster explained that memory recovery rarely happened like a door opening.
For Melissa, it had come like pieces of glass being fitted slowly into a window.
Too much information at once left her confused and exhausted.
Calvin had started visiting once a week.
Eventually he brought photographs.
