It was a text from Mom.
“Your sister would’ve turned 40 today. I lit a candle for her tonight.”
I stared at the screen as guilt crashed over me.
I had forgotten.
After sixteen years of missing posters, police reports, searches, tears, anniversaries, and heartbreak… I had forgotten Amy’s birthday.
The woman started walking away.
Something inside me snapped awake.
“Wait!” I called out.
She stopped again.
“Please… where did you get that jacket?”
For a moment, she just studied me carefully, like she was deciding whether to trust me.
Then her shoulders softened.
“A woman named Amy gave it to me,” she said quietly.
I felt my knees weaken.
“She volunteered at the women’s shelter downtown every weekend. Three winters ago, I showed up there with nothing except the clothes I was wearing.” She touched the torn sleeve gently. “I was cold, angry, embarrassed… honestly, I didn’t want to keep living.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
“She took this jacket off and wrapped it around me herself. Said someone who loved her once gave it to her. Then she said, ‘Now I’m giving it to you because sometimes surviving is hard enough already.’”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Amy,” I whispered. “My sister’s name was Amy.”
The woman’s eyes widened slowly.
“You’re her family?”
I nodded.
