It was a quiet Saturday afternoon when my daughter and I curled up on the couch with an old photo album. She was about five, curious and full of questions, laughing as she pointed to pictures of my college days. We giggled at my questionable hairstyles and outfits, but then her little finger paused on a photo I hadn’t meant for her to see — one of me with Nico, the man I loved before I met her father.
She studied his face carefully and said words that stopped me in my tracks:
“I know him. That’s the man who gave me the bracelet at the fair.”
At first, I thought she was mistaken. But then I remembered the summer carnival we had gone to months earlier. She had come home proudly wearing a delicate blue-and-white beaded bracelet, claiming a kind man had given it to her. I assumed it was just from a vendor. Now, looking at the photo, my heart raced.
Nico hadn’t been in my life for nearly seven years. We had broken up when I moved away for work, leaving him behind to care for his family. I always told myself it was timing, not love, that ended things. But if he had given my daughter that bracelet — and if he knew her name — it meant one thing: he had recognized her.
That night, I pulled the bracelet from her jewelry box. The tiny constellations etched into each bead told me everything I needed to know. It was Nico’s work. He used to make jewelry by hand when money was tight. Suddenly, the past I thought I had buried was back in front of me.
Continue reading on next page…