The next morning I opened my Bible to the prayer list again. I traced the words with my finger. Fifty-three years of entries. And then one new line at the bottom. “Thank you, God, for letting me see my daughter.”

I closed the Bible and set it on the nightstand. The slip of paper with Susan’s number was right there. I didn’t touch it. I just sat and remembered the way she said, “That’s me.” I heard her voice in my head over and over.

She said she’d call. I believe her.

But even if she doesn’t, I know one thing now. For fifty-three years I whispered her name into the dark. Last Sunday, she whispered it back. She said, “I’m Rebecca.” Just like I always knew.

And I don’t need anything else.