My wife closed her eyes.
Margaret’s voice broke. “Claire’s daughter.”
The words didn’t make sense.
“What?”
Claire didn’t remember anything.
“She was nineteen,” Margaret said. “There was a boy. Daniel. They were going to get married…”
“Margaret.”
“There was an accident. Daniel died at the scene. Claire was eight months pregnant. The doctors delivered Emma early.”
I looked at Claire. “You had a daughter?”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered.
Margaret shook her head. “Claire didn’t wake up for eleven days.”
“Claire was better off not knowing.”
I could hear my own pulse.
“When she woke up, she didn’t remember Daniel or pregnancy. Claire didn’t remember anything from the last three years.”
“And you never told her?”
Margaret started crying. “The couple across the street adopted Emma. Legally. They raised her as their daughter. We told ourselves Claire was better off not knowing.”
“You watched her grow up?”
“WHY?” Claire cried. “Why did you get to decide that for me?”
Margaret looked down. “We never approved of Daniel. You were nineteen, Claire. You needed to finish school, build a life. A baby and Daniel would only have held you back.”
Claire stared at her.
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