My sister and I were separated in an orphanage – 32 years later, I saw the bracelet I had made for a little girl.

“So you won’t forget me,” I’d told her.

She wore it the day I was taken away.

I approached the girl.
“That’s a beautiful bracelet,” I said.

“My mom gave it to me,” she replied proudly. “She said someone special made it.”

A woman walked toward us with a box of cereal.

I knew her the moment I saw her.

Her eyes. Her walk. The way her brows tilted as she read labels.

The girl ran to her.
“Mom, can we get the chocolate ones?”

I stepped forward before I could lose my nerve.

“Excuse me,” I said. “May I ask—did someone give you that bracelet when you were a child?”

Her face changed.

“Yes,” she said slowly.

“In an orphanage?” I whispered.

She went pale.
“How do you know?”

“I made two bracelets like that,” I said. “One for me. One for my little sister.”

She stared at me.
“My sister’s name was Elena.”

“That’s my name,” I said.
We stood there, stunned, in the middle of the cookie aisle, while life moved on around us.

We went to a small café next door. Her daughter—Lily—ordered hot chocolate. We ordered coffee we barely touched.