After breakfast Nia called Josie Brooks, the woman who had adopted her at fourteen and taught her that love did not disappear when a child asked difficult questions. Josie listened in silence as Nia explained about the storm, the baby, and the locket. For a moment Nia thought the phone had lost its connection. Then Josie said, "You found Birdie? Oh, sweetheart. You found your Birdie."
Nia's eyes filled. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."
"There isn't a supposed to," Josie replied. "You can love me and love where you came from. You can be glad she's here and furious that it took so long. I never wanted you to stop looking just because I got the privilege of raising you."
Nia remembered the hours Josie had spent calling agencies and writing letters with her, long after other adults had insisted the search was hopeless. She remembered Josie sitting beside her on the day the last returned envelope arrived, allowing her to cry without promising what could not be promised. Nia had feared that finding Hannah would somehow diminish the woman who became her mother. Instead, Josie's joy made the new possibility seem safe enough to touch.
Later that afternoon, with the roads reopened, Nia offered to show Hannah the old house on Sycamore Lane before the mechanic finished the car. They drove in Nia's aging sedan, Elsie's car seat secured behind Hannah, through streets that had changed more than either woman expected. The grocery store where Evelyn bought birthday candles was now a pharmacy. The vacant lot where they played kickball had become a row of neat townhouses.
But the maple tree still stood outside the house. The yellow paint was gone, replaced by soft white siding, and the porch rail had been rebuilt. A small bicycle rested against the front steps, and someone had hung a blue wind chime near the door. Nia parked across the street and turned off the engine, suddenly unable to make herself move.
"I thought the house would look smaller," Hannah said. "It looks exactly as big as I remember."
"That's because we remember how much we needed it," Nia answered.
They walked to the sidewalk and stopped beneath the maple. The current owner was tending a planter, and Nia explained that they had lived there as children. The woman listened kindly and said they were welcome to sit on the low garden wall for a while, but the family needed privacy inside. Nia thanked her; being allowed to stand where they once belonged was enough.
Hannah traced a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of her shoe. "Margaret told me Evelyn's death meant we all had to start over," she said. "She said keeping old attachments would make it harder for me to settle. After she died, I found a note in her papers saying the caseworker had encouraged limited contact until my placement was stable. I don't know what was actually said, or whether she misunderstood. But the letters were in her desk. She made the decision to keep them there."