She tiptoed through the snow, watched it float around her, down to the grit of the New York City sidewalk, under her shoes. She'd been walking, marching, teetering on the balls of her feet all night and into the morning since Simon gave her the address at the party.
Are you sure? He asked, pressing the card into her palm. I’m sure, she said. She squeezed the thick card stock into a ball, hoping the pointy corners would hurt her—drive the ache to one fixed point of pain.
It had been six months since she learned Maria was alive and living in New York. Six months of looking for her on every street corner and in every cafe window. She wasn’t going to wait a minute longer.
What would happen once she got there? Would Maria welcome her inside? Pour her a cup of cocoa? Would she allow the hot tears building up in her throat to roll down her cheeks or would she swallow them?
She wanted her to see the person she’d become. She wanted to say, "Look at me, Mom. I did it without you."