Jacob Diaz

Ole and Diaz felt comfortable, and a week later, the process was repeated.

Diaz and his older brother walked through the front door of their uncle's house.

Standing in the living room was a middle-aged Hispanic woman.

None of us had seen our mother for more than ten years, admits Diaz.

I'd always thought she was dead.

They hugged and cried.

He and Jose weren't upset, they were just glad she was alive.

But they did have a lot of questions for her.

While talking with her, I realized that she was a little slow, he says.

As a kid, I'd never noticed it.

After disappearing, she'd worked for KFC for the last ten years.

She didn't have anything.

No car, no house, just a shitty apartment.

They spoke for an hour, and we made arrangements to meet her a week later.

Diaz picked his mother up at her apartment in Palatka, a one-stop-light town not far from Ocala, and treated her to chilis.

According to Diaz, it was the nicest restaurant in Palatka.

"'Over skewered shrimp and Coors Light?'

Diaz asked."

Why'd you leave me?

The question had been gnawing at him since the night at his uncle's.