Adele remained impassive.
“I dreamed of seeing you in white.”
“A mother’s love never disappears,” Maya continued. “Not even when life, pain, and other people take her away from her children.”
Silence fell over the room.
“There are things that children cannot understand. Sometimes, a mother is taken away from her children.”
Adele stepped forward. “Honestly, Mom, before you finish, I have something for you.”
Penelope and Lucille brought out the white box tied with a satin ribbon.
Maya blinked, then broke into a wide smile. “For me?”
“I have something for you.”
“For you,” Adele said. “Open it.”
Maya untied the tape and lifted the lid.
At first, she just stared at him without saying anything.
Inside were fifteen envelopes, each with a year written on it. Underneath were photos, invitations, programs, returned letters, printed emails, and my old notebook with a cracked spine.
Maya went pale. “What is this?”
