Then, one afternoon, we went to Diane’s house.
My husband was helping his father with something in the garage, while Diane went outside to work in her garden.
Lily had stayed home with my sister, so I was alone in the kitchen.
I was pouring myself a glass of water when Diane’s phone buzzed on the counter.
A message appeared from her sister, Claire.
Normally, I wouldn’t have touched it.
But the preview said: “My condolences. I hope you’re okay today. I miss her too.”
Underneath it was a photograph.
What I could see in that tiny preview made my stomach drop.
The photograph showed a little girl who couldn’t have been older than six or seven.
She had incredibly pale skin, nearly white eyebrows, and long, white-blond hair.
For one terrifying second, I thought I was looking at Lily.
Then, I realized I wasn’t.
The clothes were wrong.
The photograph was old.
Under the image, partially visible in Claire’s message, were five words that made my hands start shaking.
“She looks so much like…”
I heard the back door opening behind me.
I turned around.
Diane stood in the doorway, holding her gardening gloves.
Her gaze moved from my face to the phone on the counter.
Then, she saw the message glowing on the screen.
The gloves fell from her hands.
“Judy,” she whispered.
For the first time in six years, the expression on Diane’s face wasn’t disgust, discomfort, or indifference.
It was fear.
And suddenly, I realized I might have been wrong about her all along.
Neither of us moved.
Diane stared at the phone as though it were something dangerous.
I pointed toward the screen.
“Who is that little girl?”
Her face tightened. “You shouldn’t be looking at my messages.”
“I didn’t pick up your phone. The message appeared on the screen.”
Diane quickly crossed the kitchen and grabbed it.
“Then forget what you saw.”
“Forget it?”
“Yes.”
“She looks like Lily.”
Diane flinched.
“Who is she?” I repeated.
“Judy, please.”
“No. You don’t get to do that anymore.”
My voice rose despite my effort to control it.
“For six years, I’ve watched you treat my daughter like she doesn’t exist. Two weeks ago, she asked me why you don’t like her.”
Diane’s eyes filled with tears.
“I’ve defended you to that little girl. I’ve told her that deep down, you love her. Do you know what she said? ‘I really doubt so.’ She’s six, Diane.”
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Please stop.”
“Then tell me who that girl is.”
Diane gripped the phone so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Finally, she sat down.
“Her name was Rose.”
Was.
That single word changed the air in the room.
“Who was Rose?”
Diane looked toward the window.
“My daughter.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“My daughter,” she repeated. “Before Joey was born.”
In all the years I had known Diane, no one had ever mentioned another child.
She unlocked her phone with trembling fingers, enlarged the photograph, and pushed the phone toward me.
The resemblance was astonishing.
Rose wasn’t identical to Lily, but the similarities were impossible to miss.
“She had albinism,” Diane explained quietly.
I looked up. “You had a daughter with albinism?”
She nodded.
“Why doesn’t Joey know about her?”
“Because I couldn’t talk about her,” she admitted.
“After she died, I packed away every photograph. I told everyone in the family not to mention Rose around me. By the time Joey was old enough to ask questions, everyone had learned to stay silent.”
Then, the story came out.
Diane had become pregnant with Rose when she was very young.
Her parents had been strict, and the pregnancy had caused a huge family scandal.
After Rose was born, Diane married Rose’s father, but the marriage was unhappy.
Still, Diane adored her little girl.
“She was fearless,” Diane murmured. “She wanted to be outside constantly. She loved flowers. That’s why I started gardening.”
I thought about Diane’s backyard, overflowing with flowers every summer.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
Diane’s lips trembled.
“When Rose was six, her father took her out for the day. We were fighting constantly by then. He knew about all the precautions she needed, and I worried whenever he took her anywhere. That day, I packed her sunscreen and hat like I always did.”
She paused and wiped her cheek.
“On the drive home, there was an accident.”
My chest tightened.
“Rose died.”
“Oh, Diane.”
“Today is the anniversary.”
That explained Claire’s message.
I looked again at Rose’s photograph.
“She was six?”
Diane nodded. “The same age Lily is now.”
The anger I had carried for years didn’t disappear, but it shifted.
Then, I remembered the hospital.
“When you saw Lily…”
“I saw Rose.”
Diane covered her mouth.
“I walked into that room expecting to meet my granddaughter, and there she was. White hair. Pale eyelashes. That little face. For a second, Judy, I thought I was losing my mind.”
Her shoulders started shaking.
“I said, ‘No,’ because that was all I could say. I couldn’t breathe. I walked into the hallway and threw up.”
I hadn’t known that.
Neither had my husband.
“But you stayed away for six years,” I said.
“I know.”
“She thinks you hate her.”
“I know.”
“If you really knew, you wouldn’t have let this continue.”
She lowered her head. “I was afraid.”
“Of Lily?”
“Of loving her.”
That answer silenced me.
