I booked the flight before I could talk myself out of it. At the gate, my hands shook so badly I almost dropped my boarding pass, the card a thin, pulsing weight in my pocket. Every mile the plane climbed seemed to peel back a layer of the story I’d been told: that she’d chosen distance, that I’d somehow deserved her silence. I watched the clouds and wondered how many of her own birthdays I’d missed while sitting in the next room from the truth.

When I finally stood on the cracked sidewalk outside the address, my heart pounded like it was trying to outrun me. The building was smaller than I’d imagined, ordinary in a way that made everything feel even more unreal. I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated, hearing every fear at once—too late, too changed, too much. The door opened before I touched it. Her face, older and achingly familiar, searched mine with the same stunned, terrified hope. No one spoke. Then she whispered, “You came,” and the years between us broke like glass.