There’s too much to think about throughout my day.

They often slip through the cracks of my memory.

My wife will get upset at another forgotten chore.

I told her I would take out the trash last night.

And Emily, my daughter, will get upset at another forgotten promise.

I told her I would take her to Frosty Cow after she showed me her report card last week.

But one thought that never escapes my mind is that of my mother.

I think about her daily.

If she has my same deep hazel eyes,

If she has my same dimples that complement her smile,

And if she also can’t handle spice very well.

And with these thoughts, I try to suppress it, but the same question clouds my mind—

Why?

Why did we have to be separated?

Did someone force her to?

Was it voluntary?

Are you looking for me too?

And do you also... think about me every day?

—

I’ve been searching for her since Emily was born.

And it’s ironic because I’ve resented her most of my life.

At the time I couldn’t admit it, but I was afraid.

Afraid that there wouldn't be a profound reason we were separated.

That she just didn’t want me.

And that even if we were to meet, it would feel cold and distant—

lacking the warmth and intimacy I’ve only dreamt of.

But the first time I held Emily in my arms, I cried.

And the tears gave breath to understanding.

Emily was already so attached to my wife even a couple weeks after birth.

Whatever the reason, there's a gravity of pain that follows from a mother's separation with her child.

—

Emily’s nine next week.

I don’t want to give up, but with each day that passes, hope slowly evades me.

Every day is another day my mother ages.

Another day where today might be her last.

Then how could I possibly find her?

But now—

I’m no longer afraid.

It doesn’t matter to me who she is, and whether the reasons for our separation were far from ideal.

All I want is to see whom my face resembles.

Every child should have a right to fill that hole in their heart.

—

I buckle Emily up.

We’re finally going to Frosty Cow.

Her giggles in the backseat reveal her long-suppressed excitement.

She’s singing the song she made about their Triple Raspberry Sorbet.

I glance at her through the rear-view mirror.

She pokes her head out the window, and the wind flows through her long, black hair.

The sun illuminates her face, and her eyes light up a brilliant hazel hue.

A soft shadow reveals itself around her dimples.

One by one, the flood of thoughts that plague my mind rush out into the wells of my eyes.

For the first time in nine years, my mind is clear.

And as I’m looking at Emily, only one thought remains.

Perhaps in Emily’s face, there are reflections of my mother’s.

The way her nose curls at the tip, or even the faint freckles that paint her cheeks.

The features absent from my wife’s face and mine.

Every night for the past nine years, I’ve been dreaming about an image I do not know how to imagine.

But perhaps a reflection of her face has been in front of me the entire time.