She knew now that Hannah had been born with a heart defect that had required surgery when she was a few months old. That had fed Ruth’s maternal anxiety, even though the child had been strong and healthy since. It had been Hannah’s condition that had driven Adam’s choice to be a heart surgeon. Cardiothoracic, Kathleen thought, imagining him masked and gowned, with another person’s life in his hands.

In those early days, Ruth had doubted Adam’s love for her, but had never doubted his love for their daughter. She credited Hannah with being the reason he hadn’t left. Adam adored his daughter.

Hannah had been smart and creative, a talented violinist, with a love of sport that had brought her close to her father. In the winter they’d skied at Lake Tahoe, and in the summer they’d hired a boat and sailed down the Pacific Coast.

There had been photographs with that letter, which Liza had described and offered to send to Martha’s phone.

Kathleen had refused. Hearing it was one thing. Seeing was another. She could absorb only so much of the past at one time.

Adam’s career had taken them to Australia for a year, and then to Boston, before they returned to California and settled there.

The letters were filled with updates on Hannah and Adam, Ruth’s pride in her family as obvious as her love. She described a contented life, cemented in place by family.

Kathleen felt a sense of relief. She’d done the right thing. By stepping away, she’d given them a chance to make it work and they had done that.

She was pleased. Also sad that she’d missed so many of those years.

If she’d stayed in touch maybe she could have been a support to Ruth when she’d had that brush with cancer, or when Adam died suddenly ten years before.

But Ruth had other sources of support now, of course.

She had Hannah, who lived close by and worked as a pediatrician. She’d followed her father into medicine.

Kathleen imagined a woman who was part Ruth, part Adam, and wished now that she’d asked Liza to send the photos.

Ruth was proud of Hannah, just as Kathleen was proud of Liza.

Had she told her daughter she was proud?

She felt a moment of panic. Did she know?

The car door opened suddenly and Kathleen jumped and opened her eyes.

“Sorry. Were you dozing?” Martha was smiling down at her, her face pink from the sun. “That was amazing! Although I’m glad we came so early—no way would I want to slog back up that hill in the heat of the day.”

It took Kathleen a moment to compose herself.