I never expected a quiet night on the couch to reopen a door I’d spent decades gently closing. My name is Susan. I’m 67, a retired nurse who still helps my daughter Megan raise her two kids. My life is steady and predictable now—school pickups, folded laundry, quiet evenings. It’s a good life. Just a small one. One night after a long shift, I opened Facebook out of habit. I barely use it. But as I scrolled, a faded old photo stopped me cold. It was taken in front of my college library in the late 1970s. And the young woman in it was me.

Standing beside me was Daniel—my first love. The boy who walked me to class, carried a camera everywhere, and talked about the future like it was something we could shape. Then one day, he vanished. No goodbye. No explanation. Back then, people simply disappeared. Beneath the photo was a caption. “I’m looking for the woman in this picture. Her name is Susan. She was my first love. I just need to give her something I’ve carried for over forty years.”