Chapter 1

Everyone envied me growing up. They said my mother was like a wishing star across the ocean — whatever I asked for, it would arrive within days in a parcel from abroad.

A reading pen. A little sundress. A new school bag.

All I had to do was make a wish out loud, and within three days, the package would turn up on Gran's doorstep.

Gran told me my mother was over there scrubbing dishes and working off the books, pushing herself to the edge just to keep me in her thoughts.

"Your mother's one and only wish," Gran would say, "is for you to study hard and make something of yourself."

The year I got into university, I saved every penny of my scholarship stipend and bought a plane ticket across the ocean.

In those eight hours of flight, I imagined our reunion a hundred different ways.

I'd throw my arms around her. I'd tell her I'd grown up. I'd tell her it was my turn to take care of her now.

When the plane landed, I dialed that number.

The line went quiet for a long time before she spoke, her voice flat and calm.

"You shouldn't have come."

"I've remarried. My husband is a hedge fund manager. My daughter is about to start at Stanford — clever girl, the joy of the whole family."

"They don't know I have another daughter."

I stood in the arrivals hall as the crowd poured around me.

People embracing. People kissing. People laughing as they threw themselves into someone's arms.

Her words kept repeating in my ears.

You shouldn't have come.

They don't know I have another daughter.

I felt like a stain on her life — something to be carefully hidden away.

This was the first time I'd ever been on a plane. My heart had been pounding so hard during takeoff I thought it might burst.

I was two years old when my mother left. She'd been running from my father — the violence, the fear — and after dropping me at Gran's, she'd slipped out of the country without papers. Without looking back.

I'd never seen her face since.

I used to ask her to send a photograph. Just one.

She never did. Maybe she didn't see the message. Maybe she was too busy. She sent all sorts of things nobody around us had ever seen before — but never a photograph of herself.

Sixteen years.

I hadn't seen my mother in sixteen years.

I'd imagined our reunion so many times. Had she gotten thinner? Had she put on weight? Was her hair red now, or still dark? Were her hands rough and calloused from all those years of working?

In every version, she'd be waiting for me at arrivals, holding a sign with my name on it. When she saw me, she'd pull me into the longest hug.

I hadn't slept a single minute on that eight-hour flight.

The woman sitting next to me smiled and asked, "Off somewhere exciting, sweetheart? You're so young to be traveling alone."

I grinned so wide my eyes nearly disappeared. "My mum's waiting for me."

"How lovely," she said, patting my head gently. "A mother and daughter reunion — there's nothing happier than that."

I smiled and gripped the tin of shortbread cookies in my lap — Gran's recipe, the kind Mum had once said on the phone she missed terribly.

The buttery smell still clung to my fingers. And suddenly, standing there in that arrivals hall, I felt a strange hollow feeling begin to spread through my chest.

I'd been so sure. So full of hope.

How had it come to this?

I sent her my location: Mum, can we just meet for a minute? I won't get in the way, I promise. Please.

No reply.

I waited an hour. Then another.

Every time someone with dark hair walked through the doors, I looked up.

None of them were her.

My phone battery was nearly dead. I held it in both hands.

Finally, a message came through.

Stella, sweetheart, go home. Be a good girl, alright?

Today is Sofia's birthday. We're all celebrating together — it wouldn't be a good time for you to show up.

Next time, okay?

Next time.

For sixteen years, she'd been saying next time. Next time I'll come home. Next time we'll meet. Next time I'll bring you something nice.

I'd crossed an ocean for this next time.

And still, it wasn't enough.