PART 3   I stared at the hospital bracelet in the lunchbox until the letters of my own name blurred.

showed a young Walter holding baby me for eight minutes, my mother standing beside him with one hand over her heart.

“Who is that man?” Clara asked.

I picked her up.

“That’s your grandfather Walter.”

“Was he nice?”

I thought carefully.

Children deserve truth in portions they can carry.

“He became kind,” I said. “But he had to learn.”

She looked at the photo.continue reading …