She froze.
“What good would that do?” she whispered. “You have a life now. Why dig up that pain?”
“Because I’m still in it,” I said. “I don’t even know where she’s buried.”
She flinched.
“Please don’t ask me again,” she said. “I can’t talk about this.”
So I stopped asking.
Life carried me forward. I finished school, got married, had children, changed my name, paid bills.
I became a mother.
Then a grandmother.
On the outside, my life looked full. But there was always a quiet hollow in my chest shaped exactly like Ella.
Sometimes I would set the table and catch myself placing two plates.
Sometimes I’d wake up at night convinced I had heard a little girl whisper my name.
Sometimes I’d look into the mirror and think, This must be what Ella would look like now.
My parents died without ever telling me more. Two funerals. Two graves. Their secrets went with them.
For years, I believed that was the end.
A missing child. A vague statement that “they found her body.” Silence.
Then my granddaughter got accepted to a college in another state.
“Grandma, you have to come visit,” she said. “You’d love it here.”
“I’ll come,” I promised. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
A few months later, I flew out to see her. We spent the day setting up her dorm, arguing about towels and storage bins.
The next morning she had class.
“Go explore,” she said, kissing my cheek. “There’s a café around the corner. Great coffee, terrible music.”
