Just like that, 40 years disappeared.
***
In 1986, my twin sister, Laura, and I turned 16.
My hands started shaking.
Mom, Annette, had spent months knitting our birthday sweaters. Mine had daisies. Laura’s had a giant sunflower with one accidental brown petal.
Mom offered to redo it.
Laura laughed.
“Leave it. Now Emelia can’t steal mine.”
I threw a baby carrot at her.
Mom offered to redo it.
That night, relatives crowded our house while Dad grilled burgers and Laura stole frosting from the cake.
Around nine, she kissed Mom on the cheek and headed toward the door.
“I’m going outside for some fresh air. Save me another slice of cake!”
Those were the last words I heard her say.
Laura never came back.
“Save me another slice of cake!”
There was no note, no missing suitcase, no call, and no sunflower sweater.
For years, every late-night call stopped my heart.
Mom searched until the day she died.
Dad was different.
Within months, he stopped joining searches. He boxed up Laura’s photographs. Eventually, even saying her name around him could shut down an entire room.
Mom searched until the day she died.
I told myself grief had made him hard.
Dad was 90 now and lived 20 minutes away in a nursing home. His body had become frail, but his mind was still sharp.
Until that afternoon, I’d believed silence was how he survived losing Laura.
***
Then Sophie pointed at the sweater.
I told myself grief had made him hard.
“Dolly said you should check inside.”
I looked at her.
“Inside where?”
“Under the flower.”
She showed me a tiny seam beneath the sunflower.
I’d never noticed it before.
“Inside where?”
I worked one loose thread free and slid two fingers inside.
Something hard touched my fingertip.
I pulled it out.
A tiny wooden sunflower charm dropped into my palm.
My knees weakened.
“Grandma?”
