Then she gave a small, dismissive laugh, like I was some inconvenient insect. And with that, she slammed the door shut.

Behind that door, I heard it—the return of her voice, bright and cheerful now, as if nothing had happened. The laugh she gave the press, the polite compliments, the clinking of champagne glasses.

Across the street, an old neighbor peeked through the blinds. She paused there, uncertain, watching me from behind the glass. Maybe she remembered me. Maybe she just saw a woman too old and too bruised to be standing alone.

I stood up slowly. My hip would be sore later. I gathered the torn paper bag, ignoring the fruit. Let it rot here, I thought. Let her watch it from the windows and wonder if it smelled of memory.

I did not knock again. I did not scream. I did not cry. But I walked away knowing one thing: that woman behind the door was not my daughter. She was something else. And I had just met her for the first time.