She picked up the silver-framed photograph of a woman nursing a newborn baby. In the photo her arms were wrapped like a wall, protective and sheltering. She remembered the woman she was then and the intense possessiveness she had felt. A selfishness that drank like the child at her breast; even wanting to withhold the child from its father.
“Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,” she murmured.
She waited for that sensation again as she packed the photograph into her luggage, waiting for the taxi, hoping the grit would become a pearl.