“I told her,” he muttered. “She’s here.”
Ethan crossed his arms.
“Then show us.”
We followed him past the fire and toward a darker corner beneath the bridge.
Then I saw her.
She sat on a blanket beside a pile of bags. Her hair was longer and her face thinner, but there was no doubt.
It was my daughter.
“Lily!” I cried.
She looked up.
For a moment she stared in disbelief.
Then she stood.
“Mom?”
Tears blurred my vision as I ran forward and wrapped my arms around her.
“Oh my goodness,” I whispered. “You’re alive.”
She hugged me tightly.
“Mom, what are you doing here?”
Ethan stepped forward.
“Lily.”
She looked between us in shock.
Then a small voice spoke from behind her.
“Mommy?”
A little boy—maybe three years old—sat on the blanket staring at us with wide eyes.
Lily noticed my confusion.
“This is Noah,” she said softly. “His father disappeared before he was born, and things got harder than I expected, hence we’re here.”
I stared at the child.
“You have a son?”
She nodded.
Behind us, the homeless man cleared his throat.
“Told you she was here.”
Ethan pulled a few dollars from his pocket and handed them over.
“That’s for the information.”
Then he added firmly,
“But listen carefully. If you try pulling something like that again, you might run into someone less patient.”
The man grabbed the money and hurried away.
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