The woman looked at him.
“Children’s names.”
Noah and I exchanged a glance.
“How many names?” I asked.
“Usually six.”
My knees nearly gave way.
The shopkeeper searched through an old order book and found an address the woman had once provided for a delivery.
She wrote it on the back of a receipt and handed it to me.
The house stood two blocks from the sea.
It was a pale yellow bungalow with white shutters, flowerpots along the porch, and wind chimes turning gently in the breeze.
Noah and I stood at the gate without speaking.
I had spent ten years imagining impossible reunions.
In some versions, Claire ran toward us in tears.
In others, she could not explain where she had been.
But in none of those imagined moments had I prepared myself for the possibility that she had chosen to leave.
Noah climbed the steps.
He raised his hand and knocked.
