Her face was thinner than I remembered.
But I recognized her immediately.
Annie's mother.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she lowered her eyes.
"Rose."
I nodded.
"Good afternoon."
She held a small leather bag.
Her hands trembled slightly.
"May I speak with you?"
I considered.
Our history was complicated.
This woman had once participated in a deception that caused William years of grief.
She had later suffered terribly herself.
She was Annie's mother.
And I was the woman now married to her former husband.
There were no easy rules for such a relationship.
But I could see she had not come to threaten me.
So I stepped aside.
"Come in."
She entered slowly.
Her eyes moved around the kitchen.
The large table.
The new shelves.
The baskets of vegetables.
The drawings Annie had pinned beside the pantry.
She stopped when she saw one.
It showed three people holding hands.
William.
Annie.
Me.
The woman stared at it for a long time.
I waited.
Finally she whispered, "She drew that?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
Her eyes filled.
"She's happy here."
I felt my chest tighten.
"She is."
The woman sat.
I poured tea.
For several minutes, she held the cup without drinking.
Then she looked up.
"I wanted to thank you."
I frowned slightly.
"For what?"
"For taking care of my daughter."
I remained silent.
She continued.
"When I first learned she'd been living here, I was frightened."
I nodded.
"I understand."
"I thought she'd stop wanting me."
Her voice broke.
I looked toward the drawing.
"Annie loves you."
She wiped her cheek.
"I know."
I paused.
"But she also needed stability."
The woman nodded.
"Yes."
We sat quietly.
Then she looked directly at me.
"I was jealous of you."
The honesty surprised me.
She continued.
"When I saw her run into your arms, I felt as though I'd lost something."
I swallowed.
She looked down.
"And then I realized I had already lost years with her because of my own choices."
Her voice trembled.
"You didn't take those years from me."
I remained still.
She looked up.
"I did."
The words settled between us.
I thought about everything this woman had endured.
The coercion.
The threats.
The years of fear.
But I also thought about William digging two graves.
About Annie growing up without knowing whether her father wanted her.
About the pain carried by everyone involved.
The woman continued.
"I cannot change what happened."
"No."
"But I want Annie to grow up knowing her mother loves her."
I nodded.
"She should."
The woman's eyes widened slightly.
I continued.