Granny sipped her coffee as the smoke from her Pall Mall coiled into the early morning grey. She gazed at the weathered black and white picture placed atop the obituary. It was taken in front of a Bay City orphanage, some time during the three years that the two spent away from “Mammy” while she started a new family with her third husband. In the picture, Mac is taller. He lassoes his arm over the neck of his little sister. Their hair is shorn close in a constant battle against lice. Their tired smiles hint at conspiracy, and at the hope of normalcy one day.
Granny stubbed out the cigarette and whispered to herself, “We did good, Mac.”
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