Two minutes later, the manager appeared.
Helen whispered something to him.
His expression changed. “The box?” he asked.
Helen nodded. Tom disappeared into the back office.
When he returned, he was carrying an old cardboard box.
It had been taped and retaped so many times that the corners were soft.
“I’ve kept it here since Mom died,” Helen said quietly. “I couldn’t bring myself to throw any of it away.”
Helen took it with both hands.
The woman behind us groaned. “This is ridiculous.”
Helen finally looked at her. “Register four is open.”
“You said nobody leaves.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
A few people laughed. The woman turned red and shoved her cart toward the next line.
Mom didn’t notice.
She was staring at the box.
Helen placed it beside our groceries.
“My mother died seven months ago,” she said.
Mom’s face softened. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Her name was Anna.”
Mom’s wallet slipped from her hand.
It hit the floor.
I bent to pick it up, but Mom didn’t move.
“What did you say?”
Helen’s eyes filled.
“Anna.”
Mom grabbed the edge of the counter.
I had never heard that name before.
Helen reached across the register.
“Margaret, my mother spent most of her life wondering what happened to you.”
“She found a photograph of you years ago. Older than the ones she had as a girl. She kept it beside this box.”
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