almost a year after she moved, I visited her new apartment.
She had arranged the furniture almost exactly as it had been in her old house.
The same lamp.
The same blue armchair.
The same family photographs.
And there, on a small shelf, was Harold’s portrait.
I stared at it.
Margaret noticed.
“I can take it down.”
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“I don’t want him erased.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how this started.”
She understood.
Erasing people.
Erasing babies.
Erasing women.
Erasing records.
Erasing shame.
I walked over to the shelf.
Beside Harold’s photograph sat a new frame.
Inside was a photograph of four women.
Margaret.
Rose.
Me.
Willa.
It had been taken at Willa’s graduation.
I picked it up.
Margaret smiled.
“I like that one better.”
“So do I.”
We sat together drinking coffee.
After a while, Margaret said, “There’s one final thing I’ve never told you.”
I laughed.
“If
