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."
