I didn’t sleep. I wrote and deleted messages a dozen times before finally sending:
“Hi. You drew me during your livestream. I think we may know each other. Can we meet?”
I couldn’t say “I’m your mother.” What if I was wrong? What if he blocked me?
Mike hovered at the door, wild-eyed. “What if it’s just someone who looks like him, Megan? What if —”
“I need to know,” I said. “Even if it hurts.”
The reply came as the first light crept through our curtains.
“Really? Sure. Here’s the address.”
He lived over 2,000 miles away. I booked flights before my courage faded.
“I think we may know each other. Can we meet?”
Mike helped me pack. He seemed gentle and sad at the same time. He folded Bill’s dinosaur shirt — soft and faded now, and slipped it into my bag.
“You sure you’re ready, Meg?”
“No. But I’ve waited too long to turn back now.”
***
At the airport, I clung to Bill’s shirt, breathing in the ghost of old detergent and dust. On the plane, Mike squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing circles. “If it isn’t him—”
“Then we come home, and I keep searching.”
He nodded, tears swimming in his eyes.
I closed mine, picturing Bill’s face — 10 years old, cheeks smudged with dirt, eyes alight with mischief.
“I’ve waited too long to turn back now.”
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