My mother left me at Union Station when I was twelve, laughed through the car window, and bet fifty dollars I could not find my way home. I never went back. This morning, at 6:14, my phone lit up with 29 missed calls from Illinois, and my husband watched all the color leave my face.
I am Sophia Bennett now. Twenty years ago, I was Jennifer Caldwell, twelve years old, standing under the great barrel-vaulted ceiling of Union Station in Chicago with nine dollars in my pocket, no coat worth mentioning, and no idea that my mother and father had just made the worst thing they had ever done to…
