“I’m sorry.”
I had imagined hearing those words for eight years.
Suddenly, I hated them.
“No.”
She looked startled.
“You don’t get to start with sorry.”
Her eyes filled.
“I don’t?”
“No.”
I moved closer.
“You start by telling me whether you’re okay.”
She looked down.
“I am now.”
That was enough.
I broke.
I crossed the room and hugged her.
At first, her arms stayed at her sides.
Then I felt them wrap around me.
She started sobbing.
“I tried to come home.”
“I know.”
“I tried so many times.”
“I know.”
“You must hate me.”
I pulled back.
“Never.”
“But Grandma—”
“Loved you.”
“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“She loved you until the last second.”
Nora covered her mouth.
I told her about the spool of yellow thread.
She cried even harder.
We talked until sunrise.
Not about everything.
Eight years cannot be repaired in one night.
But she told us enough.
She told us Caleb had been gone from her life for years.
She told us she had gotten counseling.
She had a job.
A small apartment.
Friends.
She had legally restored her real name three years earlier but kept most of her life private.
Then she showed me a photograph.
A little girl with dark curls was sitting on a kitchen floor painting her toenails bright purple.
“That’s Evelyn.”
My granddaughter.
“She has your nose,” Michael said.
Nora laughed through her tears.
“No, she has Mom’s temper.”
That was the first time I laughed with my daughter in eight years.
I asked if I could meet Evelyn.
Nora became quiet.
“Not yet.”
Every part of me wanted to protest.
Instead, I nodded.
“Okay.”
She looked surprised.
“You’re not angry?”
“I’ve waited eight years to know you’re alive. I can wait until you’re ready.”
The next afternoon, Nora came back.
The day after that, we had lunch.
On our final morning, she asked us to meet her at a small park.
When we arrived, Ruth was sitting on a bench.
Beside her was a little girl in yellow sneakers.
My knees nearly gave out.
Nora took my hand.
“Mom,” she whispered, “this is Evelyn.”
The little girl looked up at me.
“You’re Nora’s mommy?”
I smiled through tears.
“Yes.”
She considered that.
Then she held something out.
A picture she had drawn.
Three stick figures beneath a giant crooked yellow sun.
