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.
