"You don't care that our grandmother was in love with a woman?"
"I don't care who she loved. I care that I didn't know. I care that I missed all of it—not just her, but who she actually was. The real person, not the ghost my mother turned her into."
I study her face, looking for judgment or discomfort. I find only frustration and grief.
"For what it's worth," I say, "I don't think your mother knew. About Hélène. Grand-mère didn't talk about it much when wewere here—I didn't even understand, when I was young. It was just that Hélène lived here, and they loved each other, and that was how it was."
"But that's what caused the rift. Isn't it? Whatever happened between my mother and Grand-mère, it must have had something to do with Hélène."
"Maybe." I think of my own mom, of the things I still don't understand. "Or maybe there's more we don't know yet."
"There's definitely more we don't know." Iris pulls off her gloves, flexing her fingers. Her palms are red from the work, and there's a scratch on her forearm where a branch caught her. She looks almost human like this—disheveled and tired and real.
"I'm going to get water," she says. "Do you want anything from the house?"
"I'm good. I'm going to check something in the barn before we quit for the day."
She nods and heads toward the farmhouse. I watch her go—her stride still precise, her posture still perfect, but something softer in the set of her shoulders than there was this morning.
The barn is cool and dim, full of the smell of old wood and dried lavender. The distillery equipment sits silent and dusty in the corner—the copper stills, the cooling tanks, the bottles and labels waiting for harvest. I run my hand along the workbench where Grand-mère taught me to measure and pour, remembering.
That's when I see it.
A wooden box, tucked behind a row of empty bottles on a high shelf. It's dusty, clearly undisturbed for years, and someone has written on the top in faded marker.
Pour mes filles.
For my girls.
Plural.
My heart hammering, I pull down the box and lift the lid.
Inside: photographs. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, spanning decades. Grand-mère as a young woman, radiant and laughing. Grand-mère with Hélène, their heads bent together over something I can't see. Grand-mère holding a baby I don't recognize.
And at the bottom, two photographs I've never seen.
One is of me: five years old, in this very barn, grinning at the camera with lavender flowers clutched in my fist.
The other is of a little girl I don't know. Dark hair. Brown eyes. A serious expression that reminds me of someone.
On the back, in Grand-mère's handwriting: Iris. 4 ans.
She had a photograph of Iris. All these years, she had a photograph, and I never knew.
I hear footsteps behind me. Iris has returned, water bottle in hand.
"What did you find?" she asks.
I turn, the box in my hands, and hold it out to her.
"She kept photos of both of us," I say.
Iris looks at the box, at the photographs, at the words on the lid. Her face does something complicated—crumples and firms and crumples again.
"Her girls," she repeats softly.
"Yeah." I swallow past the lump in my throat. "I think maybe we need to stop treating each other like enemies."
