Michael called my name behind me.
I barely heard him.
I pulled out my phone.
It took me several tries to find the photograph because my fingers wouldn’t cooperate.
Then I held it in front of her.
Nora.
Sixteen years old.
Standing on the beach in that exact turquoise cover-up.
The yellow sun clearly visible near the hem.
The woman stared at the picture.
Then at me.
Then past my shoulder.
Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist.
“Put that away.”
Her voice was low.
“She can’t know you’re here.”
The entire world seemed to shift beneath me.
“Who?”
The woman looked frightened.
Or maybe sad.
Then she whispered one word.
“Nora.”
I turned.
At first, I couldn’t find her.
There were too many people.
Then I looked through the café window.
A young woman wearing a black apron was carrying two plates toward a table.
Her hair was dark and pulled into a low ponytail.
She was thinner than the girl I remembered.
Older, obviously.
Her face had changed.
But not enough.
I knew her.
A mother knows.
My knees nearly gave out.
Michael caught my arm.
“What is it?”
I couldn’t speak.
The woman grabbed my other hand.
“Please don’t go in there.”
“That’s my daughter.”
“I know.”
“She’s alive.”
“Yes.”
Michael followed my gaze.
His entire body went rigid.
“Oh, my God.”
He started toward the café.
The woman quickly stepped in front of him.
“No.”
Michael stared at her.
“Move.”
“Please.”
“That is our daughter.”
“I know exactly who she is.”
“Then move.”
I said his name.
Michael looked at me.
I don’t know why I stopped him.
Maybe it was the expression on the woman’s face.
She didn’t look like someone trying to keep Nora from us.
She looked terrified of what Nora might do if we surprised her.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Elaine.”
“How do you know my daughter?”
Elaine looked through the café window.
Nora was laughing at something a customer had said.
I hadn’t heard my daughter laugh in eight years.
Elaine lowered her voice.
“I used to run a small women’s shelter about forty minutes from here.”
Michael and I stared at her.
“Nora came to us four years ago.”
I felt the air disappear from my lungs.
“Four years ago?”
“She was twenty.”
“Where was she before that?”
