Her eyes were tired; her mouth curved into a half-smile that looked more like regret than joy. But the girl beside her…
She was maybe 15 or 16. She had the same chestnut hair as Greg, the same slope to her nose. She looked nothing like Callie. And everything like him.
But the girl beside her…
On the back of the photograph, written in the same looping handwriting, was a short message:
“This is your daughter. On Christmas Day, from 12 to 2, we’ll be at the café we used to love. You know which one. If you want to meet her, this is your only chance.”
My hands shook. I looked at Greg, who had sunk onto the couch with his head in his hands.
“Greg… what does this mean?” My voice cracked.
He didn’t lift his head. “It means everything I thought I knew about my past… and my present… just changed.”
My voice cracked.
He went on to explain everything. How he’d driven across town to that old café with the green awning. The one where they used to study during college. The one with chipped tables and coffee that tasted like nostalgia.
And they were there — Callie and the girl.
Her name was Audrey.
Greg entered and froze when he saw her. He said his heart had recognized her before his mind could catch up.
She looked just like his sister at that age — same eyes, and the same way of standing with her arms folded tight, like she was afraid to unfold too much of herself.
Her name was Audrey.
Callie had looked up and said quietly, “Thank you for coming.”
Audrey just stared at him, her expression unreadable.
Greg said the three of them sat at a corner table, speaking in cautious words. Audrey asked questions. Where did you grow up? What was your favorite movie in college? Why weren’t you there?
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