Although Lily’s love for her never faltered, Monica wondered about her birth parents. Her father’s identity was a mystery, but she wondered, especially, about her mother. As a mother herself to two children, she struggled to understand how a woman could give up a child she had carried in her belly for nine months, walk away, and never look back. Logically, she understood that depending upon the circumstances, putting a child up for adoption could be a good decision. But emotionally? It seemed incalculably difficult.

Where was her mother? Was she still alive? Did she ever think about Monica? Did she regret what she had done?

Those questions had haunted Monica for as long as she could remember. Lily had been her link to her mother, the only person in Monica’s life who had ever known her, and in typical Lily fashion, she had declined to ever share much about her, pressing Monica to focus on the present. Monica had sensed that her biological mother and Lily hadn’t been on the best of terms, but she had still felt a right to know.

Troy had even suggested hiring a detective to investigate birth records and piece together the story. Out of respect for Lily, Monica had turned down the idea. She respected her grandmother too much to go behind her back. If Lily had kept the details vague, Monica assumed it had to be for a good reason, as Lily had always had her best interests at heart.

But now, with Lily gone, Monica felt as if she had been cut off from everything that was and might have been.

She shuddered. Lowering her head, she pulled in several deep, stabilizing breaths.

Time to move forward. Ever forward, as Lily had always advised her.

Finally, she dried her face with a paper towel from the dispenser. She did a quick touch up of her makeup, and tried to do something to tame her hair.

As she stepped outside the restroom, an elderly gentleman waved at her from across the corridor. She didn’t recognize him, but out of reflex, she returned the wave. He shuffled toward her, using a cane to support himself.

Is this the person Troy had wanted me to meet? She had never met this man before, and Troy wasn’t around to confirm his identity.

“Young lady,” the man said. He coughed into a handkerchief. He was about her height, but old age had given him a stoop that cut several inches from his stature. He was mostly bald, with a few wisps of brittle white hair clinging to his skull. He wore gold-rimmed bifocals.

“Sir?” Monica said.

He reached out and clasped her hand. His fingers were fragile as matchsticks and cool to the touch, but his chocolate-brown eyes radiated warmth and intelligence.