Chapter 2

In the middle of winter, Sarah's hands would turn red from the cold, but she would still smile. She would tell me my sandwiches tasted amazing and that we would sell every last one.

I always felt like I owed her so much.

But I really missed Madison. No matter what she said or did, she was still my daughter.

I kept telling myself maybe she had her reasons. Maybe her in-laws looked down on people like us, and she had no choice but to lie.

I thought that if I went to see her, gave her the money myself, and sat down to talk, maybe things could change.

So the day before, I called her. "Madison, I want to come see you. Is tomorrow okay?"

There was a pause. Then she said, a little unsure, "Mom, tomorrow isn't a good day. It's my mother-in-law's sixtieth birthday. We're having a party at home. There will be a lot of people."

I smiled. "That's perfect. I can bring some sandwiches for her. It'll be my little gift."

The line went quiet again, even longer this time. "Alright then."

There was no excitement or happiness in her voice. She sounded like she was dealing with something she did not want to deal with.

"But Mom, don't bring anything from home," she added. "We can buy whatever we need in the city. Just come by yourself."

I said okay. But in my heart, I had already made up my mind.

There was no way I was showing up empty-handed.

That night, I stayed up making sandwiches—my three best-selling flavors. Then I made one more special, perfect cake just for the birthday.

This was the one thing I knew best, the one thing I had spent thirty years getting right.

*****

The next morning, I left before the sun came up.

The bus ride took four hours. I sat in the back by the window, holding an insulated box on my lap. Inside were the sandwiches and a birthday cake.

My bank card was tucked into the pocket of my undershirt, pressed flat against my chest. I could feel it every time I breathed.

I got off the bus around noon and called Madison. The phone rang seven or eight times before she finally picked up.

"Mom, you're here? Just take a taxi straight to my place. It's hard to park around here, so I won't come get you," she said.

I could hear loud voices and dishes clinking in the background. It sounded like the party had already started.

"Okay. I'll take a taxi," I said.

I hung up and stood by the side of the road with my bags, waiting.

The wind in the city felt colder than back home. It slipped right down my collar and made me shiver.

About twenty minutes later, a taxi pulled up in front of a fancy apartment complex.

I gave the security guard Madison's apartment number. He looked me over from head to toe. His eyes paused on my insulated box and the cloth bag in my hand.

He hesitated. "Who are you here to—"

"I'm here to see my daughter," I said.

The guard nodded and let me through.

I found Madison's building and took the elevator up to the eighteenth floor.

Even out in the hallway, I could smell the food. I could also hear faint laughter and the sound of people talking and drinking.

I took a deep breath, straightened my collar, and pressed the doorbell.

The door opened. It was Madison.

She was wearing a deep red dress. Her makeup was done, and her hair was pinned up high. She looked bright and beautiful, as if she belonged in a different world.

But the second she saw me, her smile froze.

Her eyes moved quickly over me, taking in the insulated box, the cloth bag, and the old winter coat I had worn for years.

Then she shifted her body, blocking the doorway. She lowered her voice and asked, "Mom, why did you bring all this? Didn't I tell you not to?"

My heart sank. "This is a birthday cake I made for your mother-in-law. I even made your favorite sandwiches—"

"That's enough," she cut in.

She glanced back into the apartment, then leaned closer to me and lowered her voice even more. "Mom, listen. All of my husband's relatives are here today. When you go in, don't tell anyone you're my mother."

I froze. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head. "What did you say?"

"Mom, don't blame me. My husband's family is in business. They care a lot about status and background. I told them before that—" She bit her lip and did not finish.

She did not have to. I already understood.

She had told them I was dead. And now, someone who was supposed to be dead had shown up at her door, and she did not know how to explain it.