The bracelet was still in my hand when the first soft beams of morning light slipped across the kitchen tiles. I hadn’t slept much if at all. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of my mother’s face in that Polaroid came rushing back, her eyes too wide, her frame too thin. I could almost hear her voice calling my name.
But when Nova padded into the kitchen in her fuzzy socks, rubbing her eyes with both fists, I forced my fingers to close around the bracelet and slipped it into my pocket.
“Morning, Mommy,” she mumbled, climbing onto one of the chairs.
“Morning, baby,” I said, pasting on a smile. “What do you think about waffles today?”
Her sleepy expression brightened instantly. “With berries?”
“Of course,” I said. “And whipped cream.”
That made her grin so wide I felt my chest tigh
