A woman and a little girl, standing outside a yellow house, both squinting into the sun. The edges were worn, like it had been carried around for years.
I didn’t need to guess.
That house was mine.
The house I grew up in.
The house I had left—and never returned to.
On the back of the photo, written in faded ink, were four words.
“Find her. Forgive her.”
My mother’s handwriting.
Everything inside me shattered.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen years of silence, of anger, of pride so stubborn it had turned into distance I never thought I’d cross again.
And now—
She was sick.
Dying.
And that girl…
“That girl…”
I pushed myself up, heart pounding, eyes scanning the parking lot wildly.
There.
She was still there, standing near the edge of the lot, holding the cake like it was the most important thing in the world.
“Hey!” I called, my voice breaking. “Wait!”
