Hate Grows From Love
Language: en
It was five years after my divorce from Richard when I saw the little girl in the corner tea shop I now owned. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven, pretty as a porcelain doll, with a startling familiarity in the curve of her eyes. She just stood there, staring at me. The moment our eyes met, a wave of memories I had buried so deep came rushing back to the surface. I felt an unconscious, desperate urge to keep her with me. “Hello, little one,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “Would you like to try some of this tea? It’s called Spring’s Secret. It’s very nice.” She took…