“Aunty Jess,” she whispered.
“What is it?”
She pointed toward the narrow gap beneath the divider.
Only the legs of the woman in the next cubicle were visible.
Then the woman moved her towel, revealing a small butterfly-shaped birthmark on the outside of her calf.
Ruth looked up at me.
“She has my butterfly.”
My hands turned cold.
Ruth had inherited that mark from Joan.
It was not similar.
It was exactly the same.
Before I could think clearly, the woman grabbed her bag and hurried out.
