Like she’s reminding me this is real.
Like she’s daring me to believe it.
Every red light feels personal.
Every slow car feels like an insult.
I want to scream at all of them:My daughter is alive! Get out of my way!
Three years.
Three years of imagining her in the ground.
Three years of imagining her cold.
Three years of imagining her calling for me and not being there.
My heartbeat stumbles so hard it knocks the air out of me.
What if she doesn’t remember me?
The thought hits like a punch.
She was little. So little. Four years old. She might remember my voice. My face. Or she might not.
What if I’m a stranger to her?
What if she’s afraid of me?
What if she’s been taught to be afraid of me?
My foot presses harder on the gas.
What if she’s hurt?
What if she’s sick?
What if she’s been?—
No. Don’t go there.
My mind goes there anyway.
What if she flinches when I touch her?
What if she cries?
What if she learned new rules for surviving in a world I wasn’t there to protect her from?
The road curves. I don’t remember taking the turn.
What if she hates me?
The thought nearly makes me miss a light.
What if she thinks I didn’t look for her?
What if she thinks I gave up?
