Wait!” I called, breathless, holding out the watch. Her eyes filled with tears as she softly said, “I was hoping it was you.” She showed me the notes she had kept, Saturdays spent watching and waiting for me to appear, following her mother’s instructions to find me. And then the truth landed: the four dollars short wasn’t a coincidence—it was a test, a signal, a bridge between the past and the family I had left behind.
That evening, we went together to my mother’s house. Time seemed to slow as I stepped into her bedroom, taking in the frail figure of the woman I had missed for sixteen years. She smiled, whispering that she had forgiven me long ago, and I crossed the room to embrace her, tears streaming freely.
We celebrated her birthday quietly, three people together for a fleeting, perfect moment. And when the night grew still, she slipped away peacefully, leaving me with Lily—my sister, my connection to the family I had feared lost. I promised myself then that I would never hesitate again; I had already lost too much, and I wasn’t going to lose her too.
