There’s a sticky note on the last page of the album with my mother’s handwriting. Your baby lived, Claire. You asked Tate to raise her away from you. Her name is Maree and she lives in Whittier with Tate. She doesn’t know that you’re her mother yet, but she already adores you. Look through the other photo album. Maree made it.

I open it to pictures of me and a little girl in cat-eye glasses too big for her small heart-shaped face. I touch her face in the picture, longing to remember, and notice a strong resemblance to my mom: dark-blue eyes, wavy hair, a little dimple in her chin just like Dad’s. Nose like Tate’s. Sorrow sticks to my insides, regret clamps on to my heart, making the air in my bedroom stuffy, claustrophobic.

A sticky note on the last page of the album. When you’re ready, we’re waiting for you in the living room. Love, Mom

I hold the albums to my chest, breathe in, and open the bedroom door. Ruth is at my table. Tate and Mom are on the kitchen stools. Ruth starts to speak. “Alice and Tate both live here—”

I hold up a hand to stop her, look at Tate—tall, handsome. My Tate. “My baby lived?”

He nods.

The strength leaves my legs, and I sink into the couch to keep from falling. I open the album and point to a picture of me and a baby. “What happened?” I croak.

They let Ruth answer. “Mirabelle lived, Claire. They were able to save her, but you couldn’t remember her. It upset you every time to learn that, and eventually you asked Tate to raise her without you.” Ruth looks at me, and it’s in that strong way of hers. The kind that is a beacon of light in the middle of a raging storm. “We tried to convince you otherwise, but it was your decision. You loved her so much. You did what you thought was right for her.”

The room spins. I point to the album that Maree made for me. “But she’s here now and I know her.” I have to swallow because suddenly I’ve lost my voice, and in a hoarse whisper I add, “And she knows me?”

Tate kneels in front of me, takes my hands in his own, and he is the Tate I remember—older, but with the same kindness that deepens his green eyes. “She doesn’t know who you are, Claire, but she’s g . . . g-rown to love you anyway. As the person you are right n . . . n-ow, memory loss and all.”

“She doesn’t know I’m her mother?”