Deven’s eyes swept the room, her gaze landing on the framed 5×7 picture on the nightstand. It was a candid shot of her and Kennedy, her arm extended to catch the selfie against the illuminated backdrop of Times Square. Deven picked up the picture and narrowed her eyes at the smirk on Kennedy’s face. “What is going on with you, Ken?” she whispered.

“Hey, sweetie.”

Deven turned as her mother hobbled in from the bathroom. Even at fifty-two, Iris Reynolds was still just as stylish, dressed comfortable in a sweater and some leggings, her graying hair flipped up into huge pin curls that framed her smooth face. Deven had always admired how her mother aged so gracefully with very minimal wrinkles. She certainly didn’t look like what she’d been through.

Deven propped the picture back in its place and crossed the room. Her trembling took her by surprise as she pulled her mom into a desperate hug, inhaling her signature floral jasmine and rose fragrance. Apparently, Iris didn’t notice the tremors. Or maybe the dementia kept her from acknowledging it.

“I didn’t know someone was coming to visit me today.” Iris pulled back to smile at her daughter.

Deven’s spirit plummeted seeing that familiar blank smile, void of recognition but polite, nonetheless. “Mommy, do you know who I am?” she asked, gently.

“Of course. You’re my nurse.” Iris padded to the bed and took a seat.

Deven picked up the picture frame again and held it out for her mother to see. “No Mommy, it’s me. Deven, your daughter.” She pointed at the picture as she spoke. “And that’s your other daughter, Kennedy. Do you remember her?”

Iris shook her head. “No baby, I don’t think I have any children. You must have the wrong room.” She paused as if she were thinking. “You know what? I think I do remember having children. Two girls.”

“Yes.” Deven’s voice lifted in excitement. “That’s us. See? I’m your first-born.”

Again, Iris shook her head, this time with a deep-set frown. “No . . .” She stretched the word out like a little song. “No, my girls ran away when they were little.”

It would be too much to correct her. It was only Kennedy that had run away, well, almost. But her mother was destroyed by her daughter’s absence just the same.

Deven sat the photo back on the stand for the second time and took a seat next to Iris, her face downcast. There was no use in telling her about Kennedy. It would be falling on deaf ears. She would have to wait and decide what to do.

Iris’s hand moved to cover Deven’s. “Have you seen my girls?” she asked, her tone hopeful.