Extract

Remember

I was lost once.

It happened when I was seven or eight years old. I was in a mall, shopping with my mother. It was our special time together; we had so much fun. She perused the high-end dresses and designer shoes and I busied myself with hiding games. I dove between clusters of mannequins and covered my head with skirts and pencil-thin pant legs. I slipped under carousels of sweaters and waited for my mother to call me. When I was out of sight for a few seconds, she would sing my name quietly and tell me that she missed me. I’d always laugh, jump into view, and she would call me her “favorite surprise.” But on one particular occasion, I did not answer her call. To this day, I don’t know why I stayed tucked away behind that rack of blouses. I listened to her initial bidding then stood frozen as the minutes passed and she started to scream my name in fear. I didn’t see her run to find security, but I knew that she was gone. When I emerged quickly, hoping to see which way she ran, I saw no sign of her. Suddenly, our roles were reversed. I roamed the shops for what seemed like an eternity calling her name. I was afraid, and I felt guilty for so foolishly disregarding the rules of our amusement.

Soon, I grew weary of looking…hoping to find her, or be...