“Where did you get it?”
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
I pulled out my phone.
I dropped it.
Michael picked it up and handed it back.
My fingers barely worked as I opened the album I had looked at thousands of times.
Then I found the photograph.
Nora.
Sixteen.
Barefoot.
Turquoise cover-up.
Crooked yellow sun.
I held it out.
The woman stared at the screen.
All the color disappeared from her face.
Her eyes moved from the photograph to me.
Then past me.
Toward the café.
She grabbed my wrist.
“Put that away.”
“What?”
“Please.”
“Why?”
Her grip tightened.
Then she whispered:
“She can’t know you’re here.”
My entire body went cold.
“Who?”
The woman said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“Who can’t know?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Before she could answer, a voice came from behind me.
“Ruth?”
I turned.
A woman had stepped out of the café carrying two takeaway cups.
She looked about twenty-four.
Dark hair.
Tall.
Thin.
There was a small scar near her left eyebrow.
I knew that scar.
Nora got it when she was seven after falling from her bicycle into our mailbox.
For eight years, I had imagined how I would react if I ever saw my daughter again.
I thought I would scream.
Run.
Collapse.
Instead, I just stood there.
She looked at me.
Her face changed.
The cups slipped from her hands.
One hit the pavement and burst.
“Nora.”
She backed away.
“No.”
I couldn’t move.
“Nora.”
“No.”
She turned toward Ruth.
“You said they didn’t know.”
Ruth started crying.
“I didn’t know they were coming.”
Nora looked at Michael.
Then at me.
Her breathing became fast and shallow.
I reached toward her.
She flinched.
That hurt more than almost anything that happened during those eight years.
“Please don’t,” she said.
I dropped my hand.
“Nora, honey—”
“Don’t call me that.”
Michael came beside me.
His face was white.
“Nora.”
She looked at him.
For one second, something softened.
Then it disappeared.
“I can’t do this.”
She turned and started walking.
I followed.
“Nora, wait!”
Ruth stepped between us.
“Claire, please.”
“You know my name.”
She nodded.
“How do you know my name?”
“Because Nora told me.”
“Then move.”
“She’s having a panic attack.”
“She is my daughter.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything!”
My voice was loud enough that people at nearby tables turned.
