“We opened the locked safe belonging to the Calloway family. There was another letter from your mother. And a recent photo. She’s alive. You can find her.”
Two days later, Harper stood by Iris’s hospital bed.
“Go,” Iris said, squeezing her hand. “Bring my daughter home.”
Sunday morning in Savannah smelled of salt and jasmine. The cobblestone streets gleamed in the soft sunlight. Harper stood outside a small café with white curtains and weathered wood. The Driftwood Room. Her heart was pounding.
She opened the door. Inside, a silver-haired woman sat by the window, a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked up. They met Harper’s. Time froze.
The woman stood slowly, tears already welling up in her eyes. “Harper,” she whispered.
Harper’s voice broke. “Mom.”
They crossed the space between them and fell into each other’s arms. Years of separation melted away in that embrace. They cried. They laughed. They clung to each other as if afraid to let go.
“I waited every Sunday,” Lillian whispered. “Every Sunday.”
“I’m here,” Harper said. “I found you.”
They sat by the window and talked for hours. About childhood. About regret. About survival. About a love that never dies.
