I pulled it out.
I stared at it.
Dad had carved wooden flowers for us when we were little. Mine was a daisy. Laura's was this sunflower.
I'd seen hers only once after childhood: the night she disappeared, clenched in Dad's hand beneath the porch light.
"Why are you crying?" Sophie whispered.
I'd seen hers only once after childhood.
"Because your great-grandfather had this the night my sister disappeared."
She stared at it.
"Then how did Dolly get it?"
"I don't know."
For 40 years, that answer had controlled my life.
I wasn't giving it another day.
"I don't know."
***
I called Sophie's mother and asked her to come home early.
Then I picked up the sweater and drove straight to the school.
At the front office, I asked for Dolly.
The woman behind the desk told me she was finishing work nearby.
I waited.
Five minutes later, a woman in her 30s pushed a cleaning cart through the double doors.
At the front office, I asked for Dolly.
She stopped when she saw me.
Her eyes went straight to the sweater folded over my arm.
"You must be Emelia."
I didn't like that she knew my name.
"You gave this to Sophie. My granddaughter."
"You must be Emelia."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Dolly glanced toward the office staff.
"Could we sit somewhere quieter?"
"No."
Her eyebrows lifted.
"I've spent 40 years waiting for people to tell me things. Start talking here."
"Could we sit somewhere quieter?"
She swallowed.
I held up the charm.
"Who gave you this sweater?"
"My mother."
"What's her name?"
Dolly hesitated.
"Who gave you this sweater?"
I stepped closer.
"Please don't make me pull every word out of you."
Her eyes filled.
