The last time I saw my first love was on my 17th birthday—thirty years later, a woman who looked exactly like her stepped into my yard

her brother,” I said. “That’s Thomas.”

Thomas, who had stood at Lily’s funeral with an expression so closed I couldn’t read it. Thomas, who had told me the story of the river accident so many times in the weeks afterward that it took on the quality of something rehearsed. Thomas, whom I had quietly resented for thirty years for not saving her.

“He’s continue reading …