The cashier recognised the coat I donated after my sister died

Dear Delyara, After my sister died, I donated most of her clothes because keeping them all made my apartment feel like a wardrobe with grief inside it. One coat was especially difficult: dark green, wool, silver buttons. She wore it everywhere. Today, nearly two years later, I was in a café and saw a woman wearing that exact coat. Same tiny tear near the cuff. Same replacement button that was slightly darker than the others. I stared so long she noticed. I apologized and explained. She said she bought it from a charity shop last winter and loves it. Then she asked if I wanted it back. For one terrible second, I did. I wanted to take it from a stranger’s shoulders and bring my sister home by force. Instead, I said no. I told her it looked good on her. My sister would have agreed; the woman was much taller and wore it better. We both laughed awkwardly. When she left, I watched the coat disappear into the street. Donating things sounded so noble at the time—let them have another life. Nobody warns you another life may walk past your table while you are drinking coffee.