She kept imagining the perfect moment.
My tenth birthday passed.
Then my eleventh.
Then my twelfth.
Every year gave her another excuse.
Not today.
Not yet.
Eventually, telling me became harder precisely because she had waited so long.
“Were you afraid I would leave?” I asked.
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.
