Six months have passed.
Today, my mother is 83 years old.
She’s still weak, but every morning, the first thing she asks is:
“Where’s my Lily?”
I carry the baby into her room.
My mother sits beside the window, holds Lily in her arms, and softly sings the same lullaby she used to sing to Emily and me when we were children.
Michael also visits every week. He helps care for Lily and has promised that she will never be alone.
Sometimes I look at my mother and still can’t believe she gave birth at 82 years old.
But whenever I ask whether she was afraid, she always gives me the same answer.
“I was afraid, Sarah. Every single day. But something was stronger than my fear.”
“What was it, Mom?”
She looks at Lily.
“The hope that one day, I would be able to hold a little piece of my Emily in my arms again.”
