a private investigator.
We couldn’t afford one.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I made posters.
Hundreds of them.
I taped my mother’s photograph everywhere I could think of.
Supermarkets.
Bus stations.
Coffee shops.
Laundromats.
Restaurants.
All over campus.
I carried extra copies inside my bag in case I met someone who might recognize her.
Before every shift, I checked my phone hoping someone had finally called.
Nobody did.
For four months, there was nothing.
Then came that Friday night.
A couple was seated in
