“Every day for 36 years.”
Her eyes filled.
She turned toward the window.
“I spent most of my life thinking you didn’t want me.”
“I did.”
“You were 17.”
“I was still your mother.”
Rebecca wiped her cheek.
“Michael told me your parents arranged everything.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know that now.”
There were a thousand things I wanted to ask.
Who raised her?
Was she happy?
What was her first word?
Did she like school?
Who held her when she was sick?
Who taught her to drive?
Who walked her through heartbreak?
But those questions belonged to 36 years I couldn’t demand back in one hospital room.
So I asked the only thing that mattered then.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Then I’ll let you rest.”
I turned toward the door.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“Is Grace okay?”
I smiled through my tears.
“She’s perfect.”
“You held her?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca closed her eyes briefly.
“Good.”
That was all.
It was enough.
Rebecca came home from the hospital several days later.
Not to my house.
To hers.
That mattered.
We didn’t suddenly become mother and daughter in the way people expect from stories like ours.
For weeks, we mostly texted.
Sometimes she answered immediately.
Sometimes three days passed.
I learned not to panic.
Our first lunch lasted 40 minutes and the second lasted almost two hours.
Eventually, she met Nathan and Luke.
Watching my three sons sit across from the sister they never knew existed was one of the strangest experiences of my life.
David and I had harder work to do.
I understood why he’d been afraid to tell me.
Understanding wasn’t forgiveness.
Neither was love.
We started counseling.
