“This is my mom,” he said, gesturing at a photograph in a wooden frame.
The picture was of a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair sitting on a plaid sofa, holding a small baby. She was smiling, but the expression looked forced. Dark rings beneath her eyes and a messy ponytail gave the impression that she was overly tired. Melody could definitely see Michael in her, especially her nose and forehead. “She’s pretty,” Melody said, forcing a smile.
“This was the day before she left,” Michael explained, his eyes sad, his voice quieter than usual.
Melody hid her surprise. She had no idea that Michael had never really known his mom. He couldn’t have been more than a few months old in the picture. “That was a long time ago.”
“Yep,” he said, “and I hardly ever saw her since.”
“That must have
