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instructed her. "It's just like General Hospital in here." Ten days after we brought Annie home, I was
upstairs in my bed nursing her when Logan arrived
from the factory. He was so excited about our child
that he would often leave the factory to make what he
called "baby visits." He would rush in, hold the baby
in his arms or watch her sleep for a while, and then go
back to the factory.
This particular afternoon when he came
upstairs, he carried a box in his arms. It was marked
FRAGILE.
"What is it?" I asked, shifting the baby in my
arm so I could sit up straighter.
"I don't know," Logan said. "It was just
delivered." He opened it and carefully lifted out its
contents, placing it at my side on the bed.
It was a perfectly rendered miniature of Troy's
cottage. Everything was there, even the maze behind
it.
"Well, I'll be darned," Logan said. "Look at
this. The roof lifts off."
He removed it and tinkling chimes played
Troy's favorite Chopin prelude. Within the cottage a
man who looked just like Troy rested on the floor, his
hands behind his head. At his side sat a girl who
looked very much like me when I had first come to
Farthy. Everything was just as it had been: the tiny
furniture, tiny dishes, even tiny tools to make toys. Only Troy could have made this Only Troy. He
knew. He knew she was his. And he wanted me to
know he knew. This was his way of telling me, his
way of claiming his daughter. Oh, Troy, how I wished
