For as long as I could remember, I would dream of a little girl laughing and running through a field of sunflowers. Her tiny hand would slip from mine, and no matter how fast I chased her, she would always disappear into the golden sea.

"May!" I'd scream, desperate. "Please don't leave me! Mommy and Daddy will be so mad!"

Then I'd wake up, heart racing, my pillow damp with tears. It was always 3 a.m.

My name is Judy. And 67 years ago, when I was just a frightened little girl, I lost my sister, May.

---

Our story was like something out of a sad novel. After our parents were killed in a tragic car accident, May and I were sent to a shelter. Life there was cruel and cold. The older kids bullied me, yanking my pigtails and calling me names, making fun of our dead parents.

May was my shield. She fought for me, held me close at night, and whispered promises that we would always have each other.

"I love you, May," I'd murmur every night before falling asleep.

"I love you too, little caterpillar," she'd giggle, her arms wrapped tight around me.

But fate had other plans. Six months after arriving at the shelter, a couple came for May. Just like that, she was gone. No note. No goodbye hug. Nothing.

I cried and begged the caretaker to tell me where May had gone. I still remember her sharp, cruel words:
"She chose to leave, sweetheart. She didn’t want you tagging along."

---

I survived. I had to. A year later, a kind couple adopted me. The Adamses gave me a warm, loving home. They gave me everything — except May.

I grew up, fell in love, had a son of my own. I lived a good life. But not a day went by that I didn't think about my sister.
Where was she? Was she safe? Did she remember me?

I tried everything to find her: DNA ancestry tests, adoption records, old addresses. I even visited the house where she had once lived with her new family. It was empty, long abandoned.

Hope started to fade. But it never died.

---

Then, just a few weeks ago, at 3 a.m., I woke from that same sunflower dream. I shuffled into the kitchen for a glass of water—and caught my grandson Peter, elbows-deep in the pantry, shoveling ice cream straight from the tub.

"Peter!" I laughed through my exhaustion. "You'll ruin your breakfast!"

"Gran!" he grinned mischievously. "Don't tell Mom and Dad, please!"

We sat at the kitchen table, sharing the forbidden treat, and I told him about my dream. About May.

"Why don't we try finding her on Facebook?" Peter said, licking his spoon.

"Facebook?" I repeated, clueless.

"It's easy, Gran. We'll find her," he promised.

He made me a deal: he would help me search if I promised not to rat him out to his parents. I agreed, my heart lighter than it had been in years.

---

We stayed up until sunrise, searching profile after profile. We typed her name, guessed her possible married names, zoomed in on blurry profile pictures. But nothing.

Peter had to leave for school, yawning and bleary-eyed. I was left alone at the kitchen table, staring into my untouched breakfast. Tears pricked my eyes.

Maybe it’s time to stop, I told myself. Maybe May was never meant to be found.

Then my phone buzzed. A message from Dr. Smith, a kind-hearted man who worked at the maternity hospital where May and I had been born.

"Judy, I think we found her!" the message read. "She came looking for you. I’ve sent her contact info to your email."

---

I couldn't drive fast enough. My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I barely noticed the sunflowers lining the country road as I pulled up to a quaint, beautiful house surrounded by a thriving garden.

There, kneeling among the sunflowers, was an older woman, watering her plants. Something about her made my heart stop.

"May?" I called out, my voice shaking.

She turned—and in her eyes, I saw everything I remembered and everything I had lost.

"Judy?" she gasped, dropping the watering can.

We collided into each other's arms, laughing and sobbing at once, clinging so tightly it was as if the universe itself had to pull us apart.

"You found me," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"You were never lost," I said through my tears. "You were always right here," I added, placing a hand over my heart.

---

Over coffee, we pieced together the missing years.

May hadn't wanted to leave me all those years ago. She had fought to stay, but the adoption rules didn't allow her to take me with her. As she grew up, she tried to find me, but the shelter wouldn't release any information.

Finally, desperate, she turned to the maternity hospital. It was our last connection to each other—and it worked.

She married a wonderful man and had three children and a bunch of grandkids. Her life had been good, but incomplete without me. Just like mine had been incomplete without her.

---

I found my sister after 67 long, lonely years.
At an age when most people stop believing in miracles, I found mine standing among a field of sunflowers.

If you're wondering what I'd say to anyone still searching for someone they love:
Don’t give up. Not ever. Sometimes the smallest hope can bloom into something bigger than you could ever imagine.

Because sometimes, when you think all is lost, life still has one beautiful surprise left for you.