Their Reunion to Remember
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Tina Beckett
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PROLOGUE
ILIANA COSTA STARED at the lineup of fathers, her insides beginning to unravel in panic. She tried to remember what Papa had told her to do in a situation like this. But it wasn’t working. From this distance, she couldn’t spot the small scar at the outside corner of his left eye, and right now all the dark-haired men blurred into one indistinct subset of humans with no defining features. No way to tell them apart other than by their clothes. And she had no idea what Papa was wearing.
She glanced at her classmates, who—with a chicken egg perched on each of their spoons—were laughing and anxious to race toward one of the men on the other side of the room.
Lia was not laughing. All she felt was fear and the remembrance of being made fun of for going to the wrong person. It had happened so many times. With teachers. With friends. With her mom and dad. The worst had been at a mother/daughter tea when she’d gone up and sat with the wrong mom at one of the fancy tables. A little girl had come up to her, chest puffed out and declared that was her mother and that Lia couldn’t have her. Every head had turned to stare at her. And then came the whispers. Her own mom, who’d arrived late, had come over and rescued her.
It was why her mother now wore a stretchy pink bracelet around her wrist, so that Lia could spot her from a distance. She remembered fingering that bracelet when she was nervous. It was harder with her father, who’d insisted she learn to recognize him using means other than his face. So she used the scar beside his eye. It was his tell...his pink bracelet.
Why didn’t other kids have this problem?
Two of the men had beards, so she mentally marked them off the list. One was much taller than the others. Not him, either.
The whistle sounded, and the girls took off, each choosing a direction with a certainty that Lia didn’t understand. She ran, too, desperately searching through the rest of the dads, looking for a clue. Then one of the men locked eyes with her, his left hand slowly coming up and forming a thumbs-up sign.
Papa! Oh, Papa, thank you!
Taking a grateful breath, she fixed her gaze on him and changed directions, moving toward him with a sureness she didn’t feel. Until she got closer and saw that familiar scar.
Then she knew. This man was her father. Her heart swelled with love, the fear slowly trickling away.
When she reached him, she carefully transferred her egg from her spoon to his. And as he moved away from her toward the starting line, her gaze followed his every step, memorizing the clothing he had on. Dark blue shirt. Black pants. Rubber-soled shoes.
Then and only then could she relax with the knowledge that she wouldn’t lose him again.
Not until next time, when her sorting process would begin all over again. Just like it did each and every day of her life.
