“And if he ever hides something from you again?”
“Then I’ll leave,” I said simply. “And he knows it. That’s part of the deal too.”
Evelyn is asleep upstairs as I write this. She’s two now. Her hair never did turn brown. It’s a wild riot of copper curls that she refuses to let anyone brush, and when the sun hits it in the backyard, it practically glows.
Last week, she found the green leather photo album on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. She sat on the living room rug and flipped through the pages with her sticky fingers until she found the faded color photo of Copper Tom holding my mother at the picnic table.
She pointed at the baby’s hair. Then she pointed at her own head.
“Me!” she said. “Me, Mama!”
“That’s right, baby,” I said. “That’s where you got it.”
