Page 125 of Anton

I keep staring at the child, unable to shake this odd feeling, and the longer I do, the more I realize…

She looks like me.

My parents don’t have many pictures of us as babies. They said there wasn’t much technology back then.

So who is this? And why does she have it hidden?

Turning the photo over, I find a date written on the back in faded ink, along with a name: Penny.

That uneasy feeling in my stomach sharpens when I realize the date matches up to my age, right around when I would have been one. But who’s Penny?

Removing the shoes, I place them on another box and pull back the tissue paper, only to find more photos hidden underneath. More of the same little girl, a boy, another girl a few years older, and some family shots of two couples.

Maybe two different families? I don’t know who they are, but where are my parents? My siblings? What am I looking at?

For a while, I just stare at all of them, trying to wrap my head around it.

Maybe it isn’t me. Maybe it’s a cousin or some old family friend’s baby, and Mama kept the pictures for whatever reason.

I can just ask her and solve this mystery before my mind makes up things that aren’t true.

The photos stay in my hand as I put the shoes back, shove the tissue into place, and set the fallen box on top of it, nerves rolling through me.

When I walk downstairs, Mama is still in the kitchen, rinsing her coffee cup at the sink.

“Mama?”

She turns with an easy smile. “Find anything good?”

I hold up the first photo I found of the woman and child, the other ones firmly in my other hand. “Who are these people?”

Her eyes land on it, and for half a second, she goes completely still before reaching for a dishtowel even though her hands are already dry.

“Where did you find that?” Her words come out calm, but her breath catches at the end.

“It fell from one of your shoeboxes. Who are they?”

“Just old friends.” Setting the towel down, she plays with her fingers, clearly hiding something. “I haven’t seen that in years. Let me look at it, sweetheart.”

I don’t give it to her. “Why am I with them?”

Mama sucks in a breath, her eyes widening a fraction. “You were a baby, honey. Everyone wanted to hold you.”

So it is me.

“You’re lying. Who are they, Mama? And why do you seem scared right now?”

She casts a quick glance toward Daddy’s study, where he’s busy with business.

“Thora, give me the picture.” The urgency in her lowered voice makes the photos feel heavier.

“Not until you tell me the truth.”

Mama scoffs. “You’re being ridiculous. They’re old pictures, that’s all. Old friends. I probably put them there years ago and forgot they even existed.”

“Then why are you acting like I found a body in your closet?”

Her mouth turns into a nervous smile. “Don’t be dramatic.”