Why Blood Matters, and Matters Not at All
by Amanda Witt
They were like aunts and cousins and grandmothers to me, these women clustered around to admire my six-month-old daughter at the church where I’d grown up. They had taught my Sunday-school classes, witnessed my baptism, celebrated my marriage; they were proud of me and mine, for we were practically theirs.
As some drifted away and others gathered round, a tall, sweet-faced woman with white streaks in her dark hair maneuvered her way to my side. She leaned in to get a good close look at my daughter, and her face lit up. Other women had said, “She looks just like her daddy!” Not Eva.
“Oh, how fortunate!R . . .
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