Margaret Hayes's resurfacing is something I wasn't expecting. She reminds me so much of another Margaret—my kids' nanny when they were young, who passed away a few years ago.
The similarities between them are uncanny, from their nurturing demeanor to the way they spoke with the kids.
But there's another, deeper connection. Margaret Hayes also reminds me of my mother. My mother, who passed away not long after I broke things off with my husband.
Her death is a wound I rarely speak of, a pain I've buried deep inside. The mere thought of her brings a lump to my throat and a heaviness to my chest.
It's why no one mentions her around me; they know I can't bear it.
Margaret Hayes now stirs up emotions I thought I had long buried. The memories flood back, and I have to remind myself to breathe, to stay focused on the task at hand.
