There was a time, early in my recovery, when I let myself wonder if she’d find me.
I never admitted it—not even to myself—but I think some part of me hoped she’d hear about the crash and come looking. That she’d show up at the hospital, soft-voiced and steady, and I could tell her everything I hadn’t yet had a chance to say.
A fairytale. I know.
But now that I’m back home, I do what anyone would do.
I look her up.
LinkedIn comes up first. Professional headshot. Still lists the Maplewick Library System as her employer. That could mean anything. Most people don’t update that stuff when they’re off chasing a dream.
I try Facebook next. It takes a few tries—there are more Rhea Sinclairs in the world than I expected—but I find her. Her profile’s private, so all I can see is her name and her cover photo.
But that’s enough.
Because in her arms? She’s cradling a baby.
A newborn girl. Tiny, pink-skinned, curled against her chest. And the resemblance—God. It’s unmistakable. Same mouth. Same chin. Same gentle curve of the cheek.
She looks just like her mother.
My throat tightens. I grip the sides of my laptop.
Fifteen months.
She must have met someone else.
Maybe she was already with someone.
Maybe she was never mine to miss.
It doesn’t matter. She’s someone’s mother now.
Someone’s partner, maybe. I’ve missed my shot.
I slam the laptop shut. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel everything. The pain. The recovery. The months of being silent when I should’ve reached out. The way her memory carried me through the worst of it.
And as much as I want to punch a hole in the wall, what I feel instead is a tear running down my cheek.
The next morning,I’m nursing a black coffee in my office when Gina taps her knuckles on the doorframe and shoots one more arrow at me.
“We’ve been organizing some visits to grant recipient sites,” she says, breezing in with her tablet. “PR opportunities, press-ready photo ops. Thought I’d check in—see if you want to be included.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. Better to stay close to home. Still playing catch-up.”
She pauses just long enough for me to look up.
“Not even the visit to see Cinderella’s project?” she asks, almost too casually.
I meet her eyes and hold them.
“No,” I say quietly. “Especially not that one.”
I know myself. I can take a lot of pain.
Butthat?—
Seeing her.
