I spent my whole life mailing letters to the address tied to my missing mother, always clinging to hope—until I finally received a reply that devastated me.
At my front door she stopped.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. I came because you deserved the truth, and because I could not let your last letter be the end.”
I held one notebook against my chest.
“I don’t know what this is yet.”
“That’s fair.”
“I’m not ready to call you Mom.”
Pain crossed her face, but she nodded.
That night, after Emma was asleep, I opened the delayed letter.
“That’s fair, too.”
I looked at her, really looked at her, not the photograph or the idea of her, just the woman standing on my porch, older, ashamed, hopeful, trying not to ask for more than I could give.
