The girl had been standing there for almost twenty minutes before anyone really noticed her.
She was small, maybe six or seven, with bare feet and clothes that had clearly been through too many nights outside. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself. In one hand she clutched a single gray glove that was much too big for her.
A doorman tried to shoo her away. She didn’t move.
Then Margaret Ellison stepped out of the hotel lobby in her beige coat, diamond ring catching the afternoon light. Her driver waited by the curb. She was halfway down the steps when she saw the glove.
She stopped walking.
The girl looked up at her. Her eyes were dark and serious.
“My mom,” she said simply.
Margaret’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “What did you say?”
The girl held the glove higher. On the palm, written in a child’s uneven handwriting, was the name SUMMER.
Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. For a moment she couldn’t breathe.
She reached out slowly and took the glove from the girl’s fingers. The fabric was soft from years of being held. The letters had faded, but the name was still clear.
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears she had not allowed herself to cry in twelve years.
“Summer was my daughter,” she said, voice shaking. “She disappeared when she was nineteen. We… we never found her.”
The girl nodded like she already knew. “She told me if I ever got lost, I should find the lady with the big ring and show her this glove. She said the lady would know what to do.”
Margaret dropped to her knees right there on the marble steps, not caring who saw. She pulled the small, dirty child into her arms and held her like she was made of glass.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
The girl’s voice was muffled against Margaret’s coat.
“Lily. Mom said I was named after the flowers she used to pick with you.”
Margaret closed her eyes and let the tears fall.
For twelve years she had searched for her missing daughter. Today, her daughter had sent her granddaughter home instead.