do?”
Grandpa took a slow breath.
“Your mother was his nanny.”
“Whose?”
“Caleb’s. When that boy was seven years old, your mother worked for Caleb’s family. She lived in that house. You lived in that house, Emily. You were four, five years old.”
Something shifted inside my memory.
“A big house,” I whispered. “There was a garden. There was a red bicycle.”
“Yes.”
“And a boy. There was a boy who…”
I swallowed.
“He used to run with me.”
Grandpa nodded.
“That was Caleb.”
Suddenly, pieces of my relationship that
