She didn’t avoid the question.
“Yes.”
Her voice broke.
“I was terrified that if you knew, you might look at me differently. That you might go searching for something else and stop seeing me as your mother.”
She squeezed my hand.
“It was selfish. I chose my fear over your right to know your own story. And I am so sorry.”
I sat on the edge of her hospital bed.
Then I took her left hand in mine.
The hand with the little blue flower.
The tattoo I had traced hundreds of times as a child.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
She looked at me.
“Mom, look at me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
And I did.
That had never been the question.
Thirty-two years of being loved couldn’t be erased by one revelation.
I was shocked.
I was hurt that she had kept something so important from me.
But I never doubted she was my mother.
Dr. Reeves gave us some time alone.
For nearly twenty minutes, we barely spoke.
We simply held hands.
Eventually, Mom said:
“You know, I rehearsed the conversation for years.”
I looked at her.
“When you were little, I planned exactly what I would say. I decided I’d tell you when you turned ten.”
She gave a sad laugh.
“Then your tenth birthday came, and you were so happy blowing out your candles. I thought, not today.”
She shook her head.
