Sundays used to smell like cinnamon and fabric softener.

Before Nana vanished, mornings in our house were loud and sticky and alive. She’d turn her music up too high, sing into a spatula, flip pancakes like she was auditioning for a cooking show. Syrup would trail across the counter, and I’d pretend to scold her while secretly wishing the moment would never end.

It’s been ten years since our last Sunday together.

Ten years of setting an extra plate anyway.

Ten years of scraping it clean, untouched.

And ten years of hearing the same sentence from everyone who loves me:

“You have to move on, Natalie.”

But I never did. I couldn’t. A mother doesn’t fold up her hope and put it in a drawer.

That morning at the flea market, I wasn’t looking for anything. I just needed noise. The chatter, the clinking of old dishes, the shuffle of strangers — it softened the silence that waits for me at home.

I was halfway down a row of worn paperbacks and cracked vinyl records when I saw it.

At first, I told myself I was imagining things.

But there it was.A gold bracelet. Thick band. A single teardrop stone in the center — pale blue, the exact shade of Nana’s eyes when she was little and still mispronounced Savannah as “Nana.”

My hands started to shake. I set it down. Then I grabbed it again, afraid someone might snatch it away.

I flipped the clasp over.

The engraving was faint, but clear:

“For Nana, from Mom and Dad.”

The world tilted.

I leaned across the folding table. “Where did you get this? Who sold it to you?”

The man behind the table barely looked up from his crossword puzzle.

“Tall girl. Slim. Big mass of curly hair,” he said. “Sold it to me this morning.”Curly hair.

My mouth went dry.

“But no more questions,” he added. “Two hundred dollars. Take it or leave it.”

I paid without blinking.

For the first time in ten years, I was holding something she’d touched.When I got home, Felix was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into the chipped mug we’d owned since the year Nana was born. He didn’t turn around when I walked in.

“You were gone a while, Natalie.”

I held the bracelet out to him. “Look at this.”

He turned slowly. His eyes dropped to the gold band in my palm. His jaw tightened.

“Where’d you get that?”“At the flea market. A woman sold it this morning. Tall. Curly hair.”

“You bought it?”

“Felix, it’s hers. Look at the engraving.”

He stepped back like it burned him.

“Good lord, Natalie.”

“It was on her wrist the day she left.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He slammed the coffee down harder than he meant to. It sloshed onto the counter.

“You’re doing this again? Chasing ghosts?”

“It has the engraving,” I said, my voice trembling. “That means something.”

“She’s gone,” he snapped. “You need to let her be gone.”

But what if she wasn’t?

That night I fell asleep with the bracelet pressed to my chest, replaying the last time I saw her — barefoot, laughing, trying to toast a waffle while tying her hair at the same time.I woke to pounding at the door.

Two officers stood on the porch. Three patrol cars lined the curb. Mrs. Beck from across the street whispered to someone beside her, “That poor woman… ten years.”

“Mrs. Harrison?” the older officer asked. “We’re here about a bracelet you purchased yesterday.”

Felix appeared behind me, still in sweatpants.

“What is this?”

“It’s related to an active missing person case,” the officer said calmly. “Your daughter, Savannah.”

They stepped inside.

The bracelet was sealed in an evidence bag.

“It was logged in the original file,” the officer explained. “Your daughter was confirmed to be wearing it when she disappeared.”

Felix scoffed. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Sir,” the younger officer said quietly, “how did you know the bracelet was ever out of the house?”

Silence.

“As far as the file shows,” he continued, “she vanished wearing it. No record of it being pawned. No record of it being recovered. So how did you know it could’ve been in a pawn shop?”

Felix’s face drained of color.

Outside, voices rose. Accusations. Defensiveness.

Then the detective arrived.

“We received a tip years ago,” he said. “An anonymous neighbor reported your daughter came home the night she disappeared.”

My heart stuttered.

“She never came home,” I whispered.

Felix didn’t deny it this time.

“She did,” he muttered.

The world stopped.

“She came back,” he said, staring at the ground. “She found the transfers. The savings accounts. I was sending money to someone else.”

“Your mistress?” I asked, my voice sharp as glass.

“She was going to tell you,” he admitted. “Said you deserved to know.”

“And you threatened her.”

He swallowed. “I told her if she opened her mouth, you’d be in danger.”

The detective didn’t interrupt.

“She thought she was protecting you,” Felix said weakly. “That’s why she left.”

Two officers stepped forward and cuffed him.

For obstruction. For fraud. For coercion.

Ten years of grief collapsed into something jagged and furious.

The next morning, I packed a bag. I left the house. I left the memories.

I kept the bracelet.

Before I drove away, I called Nana’s number — the same voicemail I’ve called for a decade.

“Hi baby, it’s Mom,” I said. “I never stopped looking. You were right to run. I know everything now. And if you’re still out there… you don’t have to run anymore.”

For ten years, my husband buried the truth.

Now it’s my turn to dig my daughter back out of it.