I don’t know what he means. I’m not sure to what he’s referring. But I can tell that this moment, this sentiment, is important to him. “Okay, Dad.” I turn to leave, think better of it, and then fling myself into his arms.

Startled, he pats me awkwardly. When was the last time we hugged? Not in the last year, that’s for sure. But maybe I’ve been too complacent in letting him take the lead. Maybe it’s my responsibility, as well as his, to repair this rift in our relationship.

I leave the room a few minutes later, my heart as buoyant as my feet, anticipation—and a little dread—buzzing through my veins.

Not two steps later, a current zips across my brain.

Oh no. Not now. Not when I just had a real moment of connection with Dad. Not when I feel like I might have had my first breakthrough. The last thing I need is the Voice with another demand.

“What do you want?” I ask before she can say anything.

“I remember that dress,” the Voice says, her tone soft and nostalgic.

I stop in front of the mirror in the foyer. Bandit wasn’t too far off. I’m wearing a pale-blue dress printed with seahorses, one that cinches in at the waist and then flares out. My curly hair is swept up in a high ponytail, and my lipstick is a soft coral. Coral, mind you. Not bubblegum pink.

Still, his prediction makes me shift uncomfortably. Lucky guess? Or can he, I don’t know, see me somehow?

I shake my head, pushing away that creepy thought. When I meet my eyes in the glass, however, they widen, as though I’m surprised by my appearance. Or more accurately, as though she’s astonished to glimpse my younger face.

My mouth dries. Her emotions don’t typically leak into my body, but the barrier between us feels flimsier than usual.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers, awed. “Funny, I never noticed back then. There was always something wrong with my looks—I was too heavy, or my hair was too frizzy. I hated my nose, the gap between my front teeth.” She pauses, and the silence balloons with her wonder. “All those years I wasted feeling less than. Never good enough. And all this time, I was perfect. Just perfect.”

“Oh, please.” I’ve never been comfortable with compliments, and they’re not any easier to receive just because they’re from an older me. “You clearly have middle-age goggles.”

I feel more than hear her snort out a laugh. “I am not middle-aged.”

“Fine, but your opinion is still compromised. I’m hardly perfect.”

“You are,” she says firmly. “Even though you just called me old.” Now she’s laughing at me…at herself…at us both. “I wish you could see what I see.”