“Oh,” I whisper.
I tap the profile, heart pounding as if I’ve done something wrong.
The page is mostly private, but there are a few public photos. Landscapes. A dog. A pottery mug that looks handmade. A caption about tides and patience and learning when to stay and when to leave.
Patience.
The word feels like a hand closing around my ribs.
My grandmother’s voice floats up from memory, uninvited.
Good things don’t rush, Abi. They wait until you’re ready to see them.
My hands start to shake.
I lock my phone again, pressing it flat against the table as if I can physically keep my thoughts from spilling out.
A customer steps up just then, saving me from spiraling completely, and I snap back into market mode like it’s muscle memory.
“Yes, hi… sorry,” I say, smiling too brightly. “What can I help you with?”
By the time the customer leaves with a bar of soap and a jar of honey sticks, my heart is still racing, but the stall is quiet again.
The lull stretches.
I glance at my phone.
Then away.
Then back again.
This is ridiculous. I’m an adult woman who runs a business, manages livestock that can sting, and survived a wildfire evacuation—and somehow this is the thing that has me feeling like a teenager hovering over a landline phone.
I unlock the screen again.
The profile is still there. Still real. Still watching me with that familiar yet not familiar face.
I clickMessage.
The blank text box stares back at me.
What do you say to someone who might be your aunt and might also be a complete stranger?
Hi, I think we share blood and secrets?
Hi, sorry to bother you, but did you abandon my family on purpose?
Hi, I’m unraveling my entire understanding of my life, can you help?
My fingers hover uselessly.
I delete three attempts before anything sticks. Finally, I type:
Hello,
This might be strange, and I’m sorry if I have the wrong person. My name is Abilene Kentwood. I believe we may be related.
If I’m mistaken, please feel free to ignore this.
