Later that evening, after Britta went to her room, Susie made her way up the hallway to Mamma’s bedroom to look for the file folder. She lit the lamp that hung over the small table near the double bed. True to form, Mamma had left the place in apple-pie order—bed neatly made, dresser top all redded up, closet door closed, window shades drawn, and the tan upholstered chair set just so facing the windows.

Susie seldom set foot in there without Mamma sitting by the window or resting in bed. It felt strange and reminded her how, after Dat died so unexpectedly, Mamma would sometimes call her in just to sit with her. She missed him so much, Susie remembered. She said she’d love him till the day she died.

Moving slowly to the foot of the bed, Susie raised the lid of the large oak chest made by Dat’s own hands. Inside, there were pretty handmade afghans and, beneath those, a heavy quilt for winter use.

Susie knelt to peer under two woolen blankets and found the black file folder marked Vital Papers in Mamma’s careful printing. Setting the file on the floor, she smoothed out the blankets and quilts, lest they be rumpled when needed, and gently closed the lid.

Turning to pick up the file, she noticed several pages had slipped out, along with a photo and what looked like adoption papers. Her eyes fell on Britta’s birth certificate. Suddenly curious, Susie carried the papers and the file folder to the tan chair and sat down.

Thinking Britta would love to see this, Susie felt sheepish about reading the name and location of the hospital, as well as the time of birth. Kathleen Britta Stratton was listed as the biological mother, but the line for the father’s name was blank.

Susie’s interest piqued, she held up the photo of the woman she could only assume was Britta’s birth mother. It was a near image of Britta herself. Wavy auburn hair and big brown eyes just like Britta’s, she thought. But there was a marked difference: This young woman’s features were accented with makeup, and her hair was cut in a feathery sort of bob no longer than her earlobe.

Britta’s mother was clearly an Englischer, just as Britta had told her. Even so, the reality rattled Susie.

She slipped the birth certificate and adoption papers back inside the file folder but held the photo, intrigued by it. If I were adopted, would I want to know what my birth mother looks like?

Recalling the times Britta had probed with questions, she was tempted to go to her with this file. But it’s not my place to show her, she told herself.

She heard Britta calling and placed the photo in with the birth certificate, leaving the file folder on the chair as she headed out of the room and down the hallway.