“For twenty-two years, I pictured it lying out there on Route 9.”
I squeezed her hand.
“He gave it to a girl who needed help.”
Mom traced the engraving.
Then she smiled through her tears.
“Of course he did.”
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she asked,
“Where does this woman live?”
“The yellow house on Pike Street.”
Mom stood.
Took her purse from the hook.
And fastened Dad’s watch around her wrist.
It was far too loose.
She held it against her chest.
“Get your keys.”
“Mom, maybe Maya doesn’t want visitors right now.”
“Then we’ll respect that. But I want to meet her.”
There was no arguing with that voice.
On our way, Mom insisted we stop at Hollis Market.
She filled a shopping cart.
Diapers.
Formula.
Wipes.
Milk.
Eggs.
Bread.
Chicken.
Potatoes.
Carrots.
Fruit.
Oatmeal.
Coffee.
Cookies.
“Mom,” I whispered, “we really can’t afford all of this.”
She looked at me.
“We can manage today. We’ll worry about next week when it arrives.”
When Lori rang up our purchases, Mike appeared.
“Thirty percent discount,” he announced.
Lori looked at him.
“Since when?”
“Since today.”
He folded his arms.
“Ring it up.”
We drove toward Pike Street.
Maya’s house stood near the edge of town.
The yellow paint was peeling.
The porch sagged slightly.
A pair of tiny blue socks hung over the railing.
And a coffee can filled with orange marigolds sat beside the steps.
There was no car.
Maya had mentioned in her letter that her husband had taken it.
Mom stood at the bottom of the porch for a moment.
Then she climbed the steps.
I knocked.
A baby cried inside.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened a few inches.
Maya appeared behind the security chain, wearing the same gray sweatshirt
