“No.”
I wiped my face.
“Does she know we looked for her?”
“Yes.”
“Then why…”
I couldn’t finish.
Elaine did.
“Because knowing people love you and believing you still deserve that love are two different things.”
I looked through the café window again.
My daughter was wiping down a table.
She was twenty-four years old now.
I had missed eight birthdays.
Eight Christmases.
Jobs.
Apartments.
Bad days.
Good days.
Entire pieces of her life I could never get back.
“I need to see her.”
“You will.”
Elaine paused.
“But let me speak with her first.”
Michael leaned forward.
“What if she says no?”
Elaine didn’t lie to us.
“Then you let her say no today.”
I hated that answer.
But I understood.
We gave Elaine our hotel information.
Then we walked away.
Leaving that café while knowing Nora was alive inside it was one of the hardest things I had ever done.
