I was halfway through a six-hour drive home when exhaustion finally caught up with me.
At 2 a.m., I pulled into a nearly empty gas station just outside a small town I barely noticed on the map. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while cold wind pushed wrappers across the pavement. I remember standing there, pumping gas, staring blankly into the dark, thinking only about coffee and sleep.
Then I saw the jacket.
A woman was walking out of the convenience store carrying a paper cup in both hands. She wore an oversized denim jacket with a torn left cuff and a faded sunflower pin near the collar.
My heart stopped.
I knew that jacket.
Amy had worn it everywhere when we were younger. She wore it on camping trips, to concerts, even in family photos. Mom used to beg her to throw it away because the sleeves were frayed beyond repair.
But Amy loved it.
I hadn’t seen that jacket in sixteen years.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I shouted across the parking lot.
“Amy!”
The woman froze.
Slowly, she turned around.
For one impossible second, my heart convinced me it really was her.
But it wasn’t.
This woman was older, thinner, exhausted-looking. Her face carried years of hardship my sister never lived long enough for me to imagine.
Still, when she looked at me, her expression suddenly turned pale, almost frightened.
For illustrative purposes only
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, walking toward her. “I thought you were someone else.”
She clutched the jacket tighter around herself.
I stood there shaking, staring at the sunflower pin.
Then my phone buzzed.
