I stood in the bright, sunlit courtyard of the University of Washington, adjusting the heavy fabric of my nursing school graduation gown. The Ohio suburbs felt like a lifetime ago, a nightmare belonging to a different girl entirely. My apartment overlooking the Puget Sound was small, but it was filled with light, laughter, and the chaotic, beautiful mess of a happy five-year-old starting kindergarten.
I scanned the crowded lawn, teeming with cheering families and proud parents snapping photographs. I didn’t see the people who shared my DNA. I hadn’t seen them since the night I slipped out of the service elevator at Mercy Hospital. They were disgraced now. My father had faced severe legal “complications” regarding his business dealings, triggered by an anonymous package of audio recordings sent to the state prosecutor’s office. The Vance legacy in Columbus was nothing but ash.
Instead of them, my eyes caught a familiar silhouette.
Standing near the fountain was a man with graying hair and a scarred neck, wearing a suit that didn’t quite fit right. He was holding a massive, slightly crushed bouquet of yellow daisies. Perched securely on his broad shoulders, waving a homemade cardboard sign that read YAY MOMMY, was Maya.
I ran to them, the heavy gown billowing behind me. Silas lowered Maya into my arms, and she peppered my face with sticky, celebratory kisses.
After the ceremony, as the crowds began to thin, Silas reached into his pocket. He pulled out an old, tarnished metal key and pressed it into my palm.
“What’s this?” I asked, tracing the worn ridges.
“The key to the taxi,” he said, his gravelly voice thick with emotion. “I finally retired her. Sold the frame for scrap last week.” He smiled, the scar pulling tight against his jaw. “But I kept the meter. I have it sitting on my mantel. It still says ‘Zero.’”
“Why?” I asked, looking up at him.
“Because some journeys are priceless, Elena,” he said softly.