Lyric pouts but keeps skipping. It’s early evening, the slowly falling sun casts long shadows over the pavement. Dinner out was an impromptu thing tonight, but after the long hours we’ve both been putting in lately, we needed the time to reconnect. To eat without the distraction of toys or orders or a song that just can’t wait to be written.

There is nothing that milkshakes and burgers and a simple walk down the street to where the car is parked can’t fix. Or at least that was the thought.

I’m jogging to catch up to Lyric, to not let her get too far ahead of us, when Hendrix says, “Jase.”

The warning and awe mixed together in her voice has my feet stopping. Almost as if instinct is tugging at a deep, unfathomable bond that can’t be erased with time.

Hendrix’s fingers brush against my wrist, grounding me as I turn.

And then I see her.

She’s sitting against the worn brick wall of the gas station across the lot. She’s wrapped in layers too thin for the evening chill, but I know from experience she won’t take anything else. She’s rocking slightly as she hums a song no one else can hear.

My mother.

The world tilts some and I struggle to breathe as I take steps toward her.

She looks smaller. Frailer. The same though if that makes sense.

Her hair, once wild and tangled, is pulled into a loose ponytail, graying at the roots. Her hands shake as she rubs them together, her nails uneven, and her lips chapped.

She doesn’t see me. Maybe she does. I don’t know, but I know she doesn’t know me. She hasn’t in years.

I stand there, my breath caught painfully in my chest, as Hendrix laces her fingers with mine.

Then, the softest voice I know breaks through the quiet.

“Hi,” says Lyric.

My mother stops rocking. Slowly, she lifts her gaze, unfocused at first, lost in whatever world she’s trapped inside. But then . . . something shifts.

Her vacant, cloudy eyes see.

Not me. Not Hendrix. But her. Her granddaughter.

A slow smile spreads across her cracked lips as I struggle with the fear of whether she’ll hurt Lyric or lash out and scare her.

But then she speaks and the breath I’m holding loosens.

“Well, hello there,” she says, her voice raspy but gentle. “Aren’t you just the prettiest thing.”

Lyric giggles and my heart cracks.

My mother’s expression softens in a way I haven’t seen in decades, in a way I thought was lost forever. She doesn’t recognize me, doesn’t even blink in my direction.

But she sees my little girl.

And in this moment, that’s enough.