But I have no clue what I would say.
I’m not sure I could even speak around the knot lodged in my throat.
All I can do is watch in disbelief and confusion as she pulls out a cutting board and starts to chop the broccoli flowers into tiny pieces.
Her dark pixie cut is slightly longer than she used to keep it, the soft black wisps falling into her eyes as she leans forward to focus on her task.
But the brilliant rainbow-colored highlights are just as colorful as always as they peek out from beneath the dark layers.
I always thought she looked a bit like the flowers she loves so much—vibrant and colorful and full of life.
Searing pain lances through my chest when I think about the last time I saw her.
The wide-eyed fear that accompanied her scream as masked men snatched her from the street.
She was so close—and yet just out of reach.
My complete failure to protect her that day has plagued me ever since.
Knowing that I held as much responsibility for her death as the men who killed her because I was the reason they took her in the first place—and I couldn’t keep her safe.
But she’s not dead.
She’s alive and standing less than twenty feet from me.
It might as well be a mile for all the distance that separates us.
She must hate me to have stayed away all this time—blame me for not protecting her like I said I could.
I couldn’t argue with her if that’s why she never told me she'd survived.
But knowing the truth would have spared me from years of self-torture.
A fresh wave of pain crests inside me as her head snaps up, that radiant, white-toothed smile parting her full lips as her head turns toward the stairs.
I dip back behind the edge of the window as the little boy reappears, then slowly lean forward once more.
Even if I couldn’t see the truth in the affectionate kiss Stephanie plants on the crown of his head, there’s no missing the resemblance.
He has her same beautiful green eyes and a wide, unassuming smile that reflects his mother’s love of life.
I can just make out their muffled words through the glass—something about taking out the trash—as a crushing sense of loss settles over me.
Because if Stephanie’s a mother, she must have decided to start a family with some other man.
And from the looks of it, she moved on a long time ago.
Stephanie combs her fingers through his wild shock of dark hair, then runs her fingers affectionately along his chin before giving her head a soft tilt.
He heads in that direction, and my stomach drops as I realize he’s going straight for the side door—and the trash bins not far from where I’m standing.
Moving quickly, I backtrack, making it to the communal sidewalk just before a door slams closed behind me.
If I were smart, I would keep on walking, but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn to watch as the little green-eyed boy unlatches the tall gate, lifts the lid to the oversized trash bin, and with a huff of effort, slings a white trash bag up over the lip of the container.
He’s just tall enough to do any of it on his own, but he doesn’t seem to mind as a look of accomplishment brightens his face when the lid slams shut behind him.
“You’re pretty strong to be chucking bags that size over your head like that,” I observe, the desire to connect with Stephanie—even tangentially—overcoming my better sense.
