I gripped the counter until my knuckles went white.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run out and find her. I wanted to hug her until she never left again.
Instead, I looked at Diego and asked the only question that mattered.
“Tell me where I can find her.”
Diego hesitated. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather pouch. Inside were two things: a single silver bracelet with my daughter’s name etched on the inside, and a folded slip of paper with coordinates.
“She’s staying at a safe house in Toluca. She doesn’t know I’m here. I promised her I wouldn’t contact you until she gave the all-clear. But… she left this for you. Said you’d know what to do.”
I took the pouch with both hands, like it was made of glass and gold at the same time.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For bringing her face back to me.”
Diego nodded once.
“Bring her home, Señora. She’s been carrying your face in her heart for eight years. I think she’s ready to show it to the world.”
The door closed behind him. The bakery was suddenly too quiet.
I stood there holding the pouch, tears streaming down my face for the first time in eight years.
Then I picked up the phone and called the number I’d been waiting to use for a decade.
The one that would bring my daughter home.
