I’d give Marina the picture at my father’s funeral, and she would see the hope in my childhood face and recognize herself in my mother’s image. She might see Mama’s worry and her hope and her joy, and I would say, “What you feel for Eliza, I felt for you, but I had trouble showing it.” I would tell her that I had wanted to be good and loving like Mama, and if she gave me a chance, I would prove myself to her. If she turned away, I would keep trying. I’d bake bread in my mother’s oven and carry the loaves to her. If she would not see me, I’d leave them on her porch and wait for something in
...more
