The rain beat against the heavy glass windows of Whitaker’s.

Inside, the brass fixtures and dark mahogany panels of the Boston restaurant felt suffocating.

I checked my watch for the fifth time in ten minutes.

My water glass was empty, the lemon wedge at the bottom looking dry and shriveled.

My phone buzzed on the white linen tablecloth.

The screen lit up with a text message from James Hendricks.

“Hey Victoria, I’m going to have to pass on tonight,” the message read.

“To be honest, I looked you up, and I think you just have too much baggage.”

“I’m looking for something lighter. Good luck.”

I stared at the words until they blurred into a blue smudge.

Too much baggage.

Apparently, being thirty-two, divorced, and working eighty hours a week as a pediatric nurse counted as baggage.

My mind drifted for a second to Mark.

When the fertility treatments failed, my ex-husband had simply packed his bags and walked out of our Brookline home.

“You’re too sad, Victoria,” Mark had said.

Now, James didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face in a public restaurant.

I signaled the waiter, ready to ask for my coat and the bill for my untouched sparkling water.

“Hi.”

The voice was tiny, barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner.

I looked down.

Standing right beside my table was a little girl with big, brown eyes and messy pigtails.

She wore a yellow raincoat that was still damp from the Boston drizzle.

She was clutching a plastic purple unicorn to her chest.

“Hello there,” I said, my nurse’s instinct instantly taking over.

I sat up straighter and gave her a small, practiced smile.

“Are you lost, sweetie?”

She shook her head, her pigtails swaying.

She looked to be about four years old, with rosy cheeks and a small smudge of dirt on her chin.

She reached out and touched the edge of my sweater sleeve with a sticky finger.

“You have nice eyes,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a sudden warmth in my chest. “What’s your name?”

“Chloe,” she said.