Life pushed me forward. I finished school, got married, had kids, changed my name, paid bills. I became a mother. Then a grandmother.
On the outside, my life was full. But inside, there was always a quiet place shaped like Ella.
Sometimes I’d set the table and catch myself putting out two plates. Sometimes I’d wake at night, sure I’d heard a little girl call my name. Sometimes I’d look in the mirror and think, This is what Ella might look like now.
My parents died without ever telling me more. Two funerals. Two graves. Their secrets went with them. For years, I told myself that was it: a missing child, a vague “they found her body,” silence.
Then my granddaughter went to college in another state. “Grandma, you have to come visit,” she said. “You’d love it here.”
“I’ll come,” I promised. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
A few months later, I flew out. We spent a day setting up her dorm, arguing about towels and storage bins.
The next morning, she had class. “Go explore,” she said, kissing my cheek. “There’s a café around the corner. Great coffee, terrible music.”
So I went.
