Inside, my sister never left me.
Then, last year, everything changed.
I was on a short business trip to another city, nothing special. One evening, I stopped at a supermarket. I was tired, distracted, and I headed towards the biscuit aisle.
That’s when I saw her.
A little girl was standing there, carefully comparing two boxes of biscuits. As she raised her arm, the sleeve of her jacket slipped back.
On her wrist was a thin, twisted bracelet — red and blue.
I froze.
At eight years old, I stole red and blue wool from the craft box and made two matching bracelets. One for me. One for Mia.
“So that you don’t forget me,” I had told him.
She was wearing it the day I was taken away.
I approached the young girl.
“That’s a very pretty bracelet,” I said.
“My mother gave it to me,” she replied proudly. “She said someone special made it.”
A woman approached us with a box of cereal.
I recognized her as soon as I saw her.
Her gaze. Her gait. The way her eyebrows furrowed when she read the labels.
The little girl ran towards her.
“Mommy, can we have the chocolate ones?”
I took a step forward before losing my courage.
“Excuse me,” I said. “May I ask if someone gave you this bracelet when you were a child?”
Her face has changed.
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“In an orphanage?” I whispered.
She turned pale.
“How do you know?”
“I made two bracelets like this,” I said. “One for me. One for my little sister.”
She stared at me.
“My sister’s name was Elena.”
“That’s my name,” I said.
We stood there, stunned, in the middle of the biscuit aisle, while life went on around us.
We went to a small café right next door. His daughter, Lily, ordered a hot chocolate. We ordered a coffee, which we barely touched.
Up close, there was no doubt. It was Mia. Just older.
“I thought you had forgotten me,” she said, crying.
“Never,” I replied. “I thought you had forgotten me.”
We laughed — a laugh tinged with pain and relief.
