My eyes filled.
“So do I.”
For eight years, I imagined finding Nora meant bringing her home.
I was wrong.
Nora had already built a home.
What we’re building now is something different—a relationship between the people we became while we were apart.
The turquoise cover-up is folded inside a cedar box.
The yellow sun is still crooked.
Still imperfect.
Still holding.
And for the first time in eight years, I no longer wonder where my daughter is.
I know.
She is alive.
She is safe.
And she is finally learning that one terrible decision does not define an entire life.
Sometimes the stitches remain visible.
But that doesn’t mean something is ruined.
Sometimes, like Grandma said, it simply makes it unique.
