Hospitals. Shelters. Bus stations. Churches. I taped flyers to windows and light poles. I chased tips that led nowhere and called numbers scribbled on scraps of paper.
The police eventually labeled her a runaway because nothing came up, but still, I never stopped looking.
Because mothers don’t stop.
For three years I searched.
That afternoon began like any other Thursday.
I’d gone to the local grocery store after work to pick up some essentials. The sky hung gray over the parking lot as I stepped out with two grocery bags.
Then I saw him.
A homeless man sat near the alley by the pharmacy wall. His beard was thick, and his coat was worn thin. A paper cup rested beside his boots.
Normally, I might have walked past.
But something caught my eye.
Then I saw him.
The last thing Lily wore when she disappeared that day was the bright red sweater I had knitted for her 18th birthday. It was made of thick cables and wooden buttons. She loved the soft wool and used to wrap herself in it on cold mornings.
Inside the cuff, I’d stitched two tiny letters in pale thread. “Li.”
That was my nickname for her since childhood.
The grocery bags slipped from my hands, and apples rolled across the pavement.
