Two days later, Harper stood beside Iris’s hospital bed.
“Go,” Iris urged, squeezing her hand. “Bring my daughter home.”
Sunday morning in Savannah carried the scent of salt and jasmine. Sunlight washed over cobblestone streets. Harper paused in front of a small café framed by white curtains and weathered wood. The Driftwood Room. Her pulse pounded.
She pushed the door open. Inside, a silver-haired woman sat near the window, fingers wrapped around a coffee cup. Her eyes lifted. They met Harper’s. The world seemed to hold still.
The woman rose slowly, tears already gathering. “Harper,” she breathed.
Harper’s voice broke. “Mom.”
They closed the distance and collapsed into each other’s embrace. Years apart melted in that single moment. They cried. They laughed. They clung tightly, unwilling to risk separation again.
“I waited every Sunday,” Lillian whispered. “Every single one.”
“I am here,” Harper replied. “I found you.”
They remained by the window for hours, speaking of childhood, of sorrow, of resilience, of a love that had endured despite everything.
