My mother followed my gaze.
“He’s wonderful,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I missed everything.”
I did not answer.
She deserved the truth, and the truth was not soft.
“You did.”
She nodded.
“I don’t know how to make that right.”
“You don’t make it right all at once.”
She looked at me.
“You show up,” I said. “You tell the truth. You don’t run when it gets uncomfortable. You let people be angry without trying to hurry them into forgiving you.”
My mother absorbed every word.
Then she picked up the pen again.
This time, she wrote slowly.
Dear Daniel,
My name is Margaret Collins. I believe I am your birth mother. I owe you the truth, and I owe you an apology before I ask for anything at all.
Her hand trembled, but she did not stop.
By evening, she had written four pages.
