Michael stopped walking.
First he recognized her posture.
Then her profile.
Then the tiny habit she had of pressing her lips together when she was trying not to cry.
“Sarah…” he whispered.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He had imagined finding her a thousand times. He never imagined this — Sarah under a bridge, thin and sunburned, her clothes worn out. And him standing there in an expensive suit that suddenly felt shameful.
She slowly lifted her head.
When her eyes met his, there was no joy.
Only fear.
She pulled the girls closer to her, her arms tightening protectively. One child buried her face into her shoulder. The other clutched the sleeve of her faded sweatshirt.
Michael crouched down, careful not to get too close.
“Sarah,” he said softly.
She trembled.
“No… don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”
He looked at the girls more carefully.
Dark blue eyes.
The same curve of the nose.
The same small crease between their eyebrows when they were confused.
His breath caught.
“How old are they?” he asked quietly.
Sarah hesitated.
“Eight,” she said.
Eight.
She had left nine years ago.
The world tilted.