The photograph showed a young woman in a pale pink dress holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket. Behind her stood a teenage boy squinting into the sun. I almost laughed, because I did not see the problem. Then Danny’s voice cracked beside me. “That baby is me,” he whispered. “That is my blanket. I have the same one in a box in our attic.”

I stared at him. Danny had been adopted as an infant and never knew his birth family. Behind us, the floor creaked. The Pink Lady stood in the doorway with a dish towel in her hands, and her eyes were full of tears. “I wanted to tell you gently,” she said. “I have been waiting four years to knock on your door.”