I pulled it out.
I stared at it.
Dad had carved wooden flowers for us when we were little. Mine was a daisy. Laura’s was this sunflower.
I’d seen hers only once after childhood: the night she disappeared, clenched in Dad’s hand beneath the porch light.
“Why are you crying?” Sophie whispered.
I’d seen hers only once after childhood.
“Because your great-grandfather had this the night my sister disappeared.”
She stared at it.
“Then how did Dolly get it?”
“I don’t know.”
For 40 years, that answer had controlled my life.
I wasn’t giving it another day.
“I don’t know.”
***
I called Sophie’s mother and asked her to come home early.
Then I picked up the sweater and drove straight to the school.
At the front office, I asked for Dolly.
The woman behind the desk told me she was finishing work nearby.
I waited.
Five minutes later, a woman in her 30s pushed a cleaning cart through the double doors.
At the front office, I asked for Dolly.
She stopped when she saw me.
Her eyes went straight to the sweater folded over my arm.
“You must be Emelia.”
I didn’t like that she knew my name.
“You gave this to Sophie. My granddaughter.”
“You must be Emelia.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Dolly glanced toward the office staff.
“Could we sit somewhere quieter?”
“No.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“I’ve spent 40 years waiting for people to tell me things. Start talking here.”
“Could we sit somewhere quieter?”
She swallowed.
I held up the charm.
“Who gave you this sweater?”
“My mother.”
“What’s her name?”
Dolly hesitated.
“Who gave you this sweater?”
I stepped closer.
“Please don’t make me pull every word out of you.”
Her eyes filled.
“Laura.”
I studied her face.
She didn’t look exactly like Laura.
“Please don’t make me pull every word out of you.”
“Laura is your mother?”
“Yes.”
“She’s alive?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
For 40 years, I’d imagined every ending to Laura’s story. None included this.
“She’s alive?”
“And Thomas? Is he your father?”
“Yes. They stayed together for a few years.”
I looked down at the sweater.
“And Laura still never came home?”
Dolly took a breath.
“She did.”
“Is he your father?”
I looked up.
“When?”
“1992.”
Six years after she vanished.
Laura was 22.
“How do you know?”
Six years after she vanished.
“Because she brought me.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“I was two. I don’t remember the visit itself.”
“Then tell me what Laura told you, not what you’ve filled in later.”
“Because she brought me.”
Dolly nodded.
“She said my father, Thomas, came to your house on your birthday. His family was leaving town, and he asked her to go with them.”
“She just left?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“She just left?”
“Your father caught them outside.”
My hand tightened around the sweater.
“What happened?”
“Mom said they argued. He told her if she walked out with Thomas, she shouldn’t expect to come back.”
I heard Dad’s voice in my head immediately, not because I’d heard that sentence before, but because it sounded exactly like him.
“What happened?”
“What did Laura say?”
“She thought he was bluffing.”
“And then?”
“She left.”
I looked away.
I’d spent years imagining someone had taken Laura. I had never imagined she’d left angry and meant to fix it later.
“She thought he was bluffing.”
“How long did she stay with Thomas?”
“A few years. I was born when Mom was 20.”
“What happened to them?”
“They grew up. Mom wanted to stop running. Thomas didn’t.”
“And that’s when she came back?”
“Mom wanted to stop running. Thomas didn’t.”
“Not immediately. By then, coming home meant admitting she’d made a mistake.”
I understood that more than I wanted to.
“So what changed in 1992?”
“Me.”
Dolly’s voice softened.
I understood that more than I wanted to.
“Becoming a mother made her understand what your mom must’ve gone through.”
My throat tightened.
“So she brought you home.”
“Yes. I was two.”
Laura was 22.
“So she brought you home.”
“What did she expect when she knocked?”
“She thought your mom would answer.”
“Was Mom home?”
“No. Neither were you.”
I leaned forward.
“Who answered?”
“Was Mom home?”
“Your father.”
My stomach turned cold.
“Dad told us he never saw her again.”
Dolly didn’t answer.
I didn’t need her to.
“What did he do?”
“Your father.”
“He told her she couldn’t come back.”
I stood.
“No.”
“Emelia…”
“He wouldn’t have done that without telling Mom.”
Dolly’s expression said otherwise.
I stood.
“Did Laura ever try again?”
“Not at the house.”
“Why?”
“Because she believed him.”
“Believed what?”
“That your family had finally moved on. That coming back would hurt all of you again.”
“Did Laura ever try again?”
I stared at her.
“Did he tell her I said that?”
“Mom never told me exactly how he phrased it.”
“Good. Then don’t guess.”
Dolly nodded.
I picked up the sweater.
I stared at her.
“Where is Laura now?”
“Nearby.”
My heart hammered.
“Does she know you gave this to Sophie?”
Dolly looked down.
There it was.
“No,” she said.
“Where is Laura now?”
I laughed once, not because anything was funny.
“You thought after 40 years you’d just hand my granddaughter a sweater and let me figure out the rest?”
“I’ve asked Mom to contact you for years. Sophie’s class had family trees on the wall. I spotted hers while cleaning.”
“That still wasn’t your decision.”
“I know.”
I laughed once.
“One more question. Did Laura tell you where this charm came from?”
Dolly nodded.
“She said your father gave it back to her when she came home.”
Dad had held it the night Laura disappeared.
If Laura had it afterward, he’d seen her.
There was no room left for doubt.
“One more question.”
I picked up my bag.
“Where are you going?”
“To ask my father why he let my mother die believing her daughter never came home.”
***
Dad was watching television when I entered.
“Emelia. You’re early this week.”
I placed the wooden sunflower on his tray.
“Where are you going?”
His face changed.
“Where did you get that?”
“Did you see Laura after 1986?”
“No.”
The lie came too quickly.
I laid the sweater across his lap.
“Where did you get that?”
“She came back.”
Dad looked away.
That was enough.
“When?”
His shoulders dropped.
“1992.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“She came back.”
“Was she alone?”
“No.”
“She had a little girl.”
