So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I made posters.
Hundreds of them.
I taped my mother’s photograph everywhere I could think of.
Supermarkets.
Bus stations.
Coffee shops.
Laundromats.
Restaurants.
All over campus.
I carried extra copies inside my bag in case I met someone who might recognize her.
Before every shift, I checked my phone hoping someone had finally called.
Nobody did.
For four months, there was nothing.
Then came that Friday night.
A couple was seated in my section shortly after seven.
They looked wealthy.
Not flashy exactly, but comfortable in the effortless way some people are.
They told me they were celebrating their anniversary.
The woman was polite.
So was her husband.
Actually, they were kinder than many customers I dealt with.
But something about them seemed distracted.
The man kept checking his phone beneath the table.
Every time he looked at it, his wife stopped speaking and watched his expression.
Still, they ordered as though they were determined to enjoy the evening.
Oysters.
Filet mignon.
Lobster.
Several cocktails.
And a bottle of Bordeaux we kept in the locked wine cabinet.
By the time they turned down dessert, their total came to $407.63.
“Could we have the check?” the man asked.
He looked at his phone again.
I placed the leather folder beside him and walked away to deliver drinks to another table.
I was gone maybe three minutes.
When I came back, the booth was empty.
So was the payment tray.
At first, I assumed they had stepped outside.
Then I checked the restrooms.
Nothing.
I hurried toward the front entrance.
