The girl behind the counter was still waiting. The store was busy, but for those few seconds, it felt like we were the only two people on the planet. I looked at her hands. They were busy tucking the sourdough into a bag, moving with a rhythm that felt so familiar it made my stomach churn.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

My voice sounded small, like it belonged to someone else. The girl tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looked at me again. She didn’t smile.

“I’m Sarah,” she said.

That was the name Dana had wanted to use if she ever had a girl. I remembered her talking about it when she was just a kid herself, playing with her dolls in the backyard. The memory hit me so hard I had to lean against the cart to keep from falling. I felt a wave of nausea. All those years, I had held onto this rigid, cold idea of what a mother should be. I had sacrificed my own child on the altar of my own pride. I thought I was protecting her, but all I was doing was pushing her into a life I didn’t know anything about.

I looked at Sarah, really looked at her. She wasn’t just a bagger. She was the proof of everything I had been running from. She was the living, breathing result of the moment I stood at my front door and watched my daughter leave because I wouldn’t budge an inch.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

Sarah paused. She looked at me, and for the first time, her expression softened just a little bit. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was just pity.

“She works two jobs,” Sarah said. “She’s tired a lot.”

I wanted to ask her if Dana still had the scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike. I wanted to ask if she still liked strawberry jam on her toast. But the words just wouldn’t come out. I was a stranger to this girl. I was just the lady in the photo, the woman in the drawer.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

I don’t even know if she heard me. She just finished bagging the eggs and handed me the receipt. I took it, and my hand was shaking so bad the paper rattled. I turned the cart around and walked toward the exit. The automatic doors slid open, and the heat of the afternoon hit me, thick and humid, smelling of cut grass and ozone.