Write

Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.

My lost daughter. Well, actually that isn't who she was, but as soon as I first saw her I convinced myself it was. I always do.

So far there had been sixty five possibilities.

John, my second husband was a patient man. Had to be. He was rich so indulged me. Paid for our trips round the world whenever there was a possible sighting. Gave me hope when everyone tried to convince me it was time to grieve, not continue searching.

Suzie would be fifteen now. I just knew that I would see her again. It was impossible not to.

I'm at the airport, waiting for the coffee machine to stop gurgling and dispense the too-hot-to-hold plastic cup into my hand.

My elbow get's knocked. Coffee spills onto a frothy puddle over the cheap bag. I start apologising. The girl looks down at me.

'Mom?'

Then she apologises. 'Sorry thought you were someone else.'