My hands shook as I read. Tears blurred the ink. Stan tugged my sleeve and asked, “Mommy, you sad?” I told him it was just “dust,” though my heart was breaking for a woman I’d never met — a mother buried under grief.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Who was Anna? Was she okay? I had to find her.
The following weekend, I returned to the flea market. The same vendor recognized me.
“The shoes?” she said, brows pinched. “A man dropped off a box of clothes. Said his neighbor — Anna — was moving and didn’t want them.”
That was enough for me to begin searching.
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