I looked at Michael.
“I want to see Rebecca.”
His expression changed.
“Mom…”
“What?”
“She knows you’re here.”
“And?”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
That stopped me.
“Oh.”
I looked down at my hands.
For 36 years, I’d imagined a daughter who never grew older than a newborn.
Now she was 36 and had opinions about me.
She had every right to.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Michael seemed surprised.
“Okay?”
“If she doesn’t want to see me, I won’t force her.”
I stood.
“But I want her to know something.”
“What?”
“Tell her I didn’t give her away.”
Michael nodded.
“She knows.”
“Tell her again.”
“I will.”
“And tell her I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not finding her.”
Michael’s face crumpled.
“Mom, you thought she was dead.”
“I know.”
But grief isn’t logical. Neither is guilt.
I went back upstairs.
Grace was sleeping in a hospital bassinet.
I stood beside her for a long time.
Thirty-six years earlier, someone had taken my newborn daughter away before I could memorize her face.
Now another newborn girl was sleeping inches from me.
I didn’t pick Grace up immediately.
Suddenly, it felt wrong.
She belonged to Rebecca.
And Rebecca barely knew I existed.
David stood behind me.
“She asked Michael if you could hold her if anything happened during surgery.”
I turned.
“She did?”
He nodded.
“That was before she knew I called you.”
I looked down at Grace.
“Then I’ll wait until she asks again.”
For the first time that morning, David didn’t argue.
We sat there for nearly an hour.
Eventually, Michael came through the doors.
“Mom?”
I stood.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s awake.”
Relief hit me first.
Then I saw his expression.
“What?”
“She asked to see you.”
I couldn’t move.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
David stood too.
Michael shook his head.
“Just Mom.”
I followed him downstairs.
Outside Rebecca’s room, my legs began shaking.
Michael touched my shoulder.
“You don’t have to do this right now.”
“I’ve waited 36 years.”
Then I walked inside.
Rebecca was lying against white pillows.
She had dark hair.
The same dark hair Grace had.
But it was her eyes that stopped me.
Gray.
My mother’s eyes.
My eyes.
Grace’s eyes.
Rebecca stared at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, she said, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to call you.”
My eyes filled.
“You don’t have to call me anything.”
She looked away.
“I thought you’d be different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
Then she looked at me again.
“Did you really think I died?”
“Yes.”
