I was eating lunch in a quiet café near the hospital when I noticed the waitress staring at me. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. Dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Nervous hands clutching her notebook. When she walked toward me, my stomach clenched. “Mrs. Collins?” she asked softly. “Yes?” Her lips trembled. “My name is—” I knew it. Somehow, before she even said it, I knew it. “You’re my past,” I interrupted, my voice colder than ever.…
