I deleted two drafts, one cold and one angry.
Finally, I wrote:
“Aria, I don’t know what you were told.
I only know that I loved you when you left, and I’ve loved you every day since.
I found the note you hid. Nothing that happened was the fault of a nine-year-old girl. I won’t come unless you ask me.”
I added my number and address, then prayed as I hit send.
“Aria, I don’t know what you were told.”
She called that night.
After a long silence, she asked, “Did you know where we were?”
“No.”
“You never came.”
“I didn’t know where to go.”
“Gwen said you left with another woman.”
She called that night.
“She lied.”
Aria breathed in sharply.
“Meet me tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“The auditorium where I work.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Come alone.”
The next afternoon, I found her straightening rows of chairs that were already aligned.
“Meet me tomorrow.”
For one second, I saw my little girl.
Then the woman she had become stepped back.
“You came.”
