Her voice was the same as I remembered, soft and steady.

“Claire,” I said.

I had to clear my throat to find my voice.

“You came.”

“I wanted to see you,” she said.

“And I wanted you to see her.”

She looked down at the little girl.

“Lily,” Claire said.

“This is your father.”

The little girl stopped swinging her legs.

She looked at me through the double pane of glass.

Her eyes were wide and dark, exactly like my mother’s eyes.

She did not look afraid.

She reached for her mother’s receiver.

Claire held it to the girl’s ear.

“Hello,” Lily said.

Her voice was a tiny whisper through the static of the phone line.

“Hello, Lily,” I said.

I pressed my hand against the cold plexiglass.

“I am glad to meet you.”

“Are you in school?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“I work in the library here.”

“I like books,” Lily said.

“I have a book about horses.”

“That is very nice,” I said.

I looked at Claire over the child’s head.

“She is beautiful, Claire,” I whispered.

“She looks like you,” Claire said.