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It was hot and crowded.
Children carried melting ice cream.
Music poured from an arcade.
The air smelled of fried food, sunscreen, and salt.
I had bought a bottle of water and was walking nowhere in particular when I saw a woman coming toward me.
She had a knitted cream-colored bag over her shoulder.
I stopped so suddenly that the man behind me bumped into me.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
I barely heard him.
My eyes were fixed on the bottom of the bag.
On one crooked row of stitches.
I knew that mistake.
I had cried over that stupid mistake in my kitchen years earlier because Gia wanted the bag finished before the weekend.
Then the woman shifted the strap.
A brass keychain swung against her hip.
The world tilted.
I started after her.
Every instinct screamed at me to run.
Another part of me was terrified of catching up and discovering I was wrong.
The woman looked about forty.
Dark hair pulled back.
Sunburned shoulders.
I had never seen her before.
That should have stopped me.
It didn’t.
I reached her and caught her arm.
“Where did you get that bag?”
She jerked away.
“Excuse me?”
“That bag.”
My voice was shaking.
“I made it. I made that bag for my daughter sixteen years ago.”
For a moment, she just stared.
People moved around us.
A stroller squeaked past.
Someone shouted for a child.
The entire world continued as mine narrowed to that bag.
Then I realized I was still touching her.
I released her immediately.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”
Her irritation softened into concern.
“You said you made this?”
“Yes.”
I pointed toward the stitching.
“There’s a mistake near the bottom.”
She looked.
“That row. I tried to fix it and made it worse.”
The woman turned the bag over.
The mistake was still there.
Then she asked quietly, “What was your daughter’s name?”
My throat tightened.
“Gia.”
Something changed in her face.
Barely.
But after sixteen years of studying strangers for reactions, I noticed.
“You know that name.”
She swallowed.
“I’ve heard it.”
My heart began hammering.
“Where?”
She glanced toward the ocean.
“I think we should sit down.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Tell me where you got the bag.”
She finally nodded toward a nearby bench.
“I bought it.”
“Where?”
“A thrift store.”
“When?”
She hesitated.
“Maybe fourteen years ago.”