Alice.
She was staring at the framed photograph on the cabinet across the room.
Twelve years old. Messy ponytail. One front tooth slightly crooked because she’d refused to wear her retainer properly.
Grace had seen that picture thousands of times. But that night she stared at it differently.
I set the plates down.
« Sweetheart? »
Grace finally turned toward me.
But that night she stared at it differently.
Her fingers were trembling against the table.
Then her lips parted.
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