We just stood there in the cookie aisle at Wegmans like complete idiots, crying in front of the Oreos while her daughter looked between us with her mouth hanging open and shoppers gave us a wide berth.
We moved our reunion to the terrible café attached to the store
“Can we talk?” Mia finally asked. “Not here?”
“Yes. Please. Anywhere.”
We checked out—I don’t even remember what I bought—and walked to the sad little café attached to the supermarket. The kind of place with laminate tables and coffee that tastes like it was brewed yesterday.
We sat at a wobbly table near the window. Lily got hot chocolate and looked like she was watching the most interesting movie of her life. Mia and I ordered coffee that we didn’t touch.
Up close, every single doubt evaporated.
Her nose, slightly crooked from when she’d fallen off the playground equipment when she was three. Her hands, long fingers just like mine. Her laugh, nervous and higher-pitched when she was anxious.
All Mia. Just older.
“What happened after I left?” she asked. “They told me you went to a good family and that was the end of the story.”
“I got adopted by a couple in Connecticut,” I said. “They moved me out of state. They didn’t want to talk about the children’s home or you. When I turned eighteen, I went back. They said you’d been adopted, that your name had been changed, that your file was sealed. I tried again when I was twenty-three. Same answer. I thought maybe you didn’t want to be found.”
Her eyes filled with fresh tears. “I got adopted about six months after you left. They changed my last name to Morrison. We moved to Pennsylvania, then Ohio, then here. Every time I asked about my sister, they’d say ‘that part of your life is over’ and change the subject.”
“When I got older, I tried looking you up,” she continued. “But I didn’t know your new last name or what state you were in or anything. I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.”
“Never,” I said firmly. “Not for a single day.”
We both laughed at that, the kind of painful laugh you do when something hurts but also feels right.
“What about the bracelet?” I asked, nodding to Lily’s wrist.
Mia looked at her daughter. “I kept it in a jewelry box for years. It was the only thing I had from before. It didn’t fit anymore, but I couldn’t throw it away. When Lily turned eight—the same age you were—I gave it to her. I told her it came from someone very important. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, but I didn’t want it to just disappear.”
Lily held out her arm proudly. “I’m taking really good care of it. See? It’s still perfect.”
“You’re doing an amazing job,” I said, my voice cracking.
