Adele rose first.
Maya raised the microphone. “Adele, my beautiful girl, from the day you were born, I dreamed of seeing you in white.”
Adele’s expression stayed composed.
“I dreamed of seeing you in white.”
“A mother’s love never leaves,” Maya went on. “Even when life, pain, and other people pull her away from her children.”
The room went silent.
“There are things children can’t understand. Sometimes a mother is kept from her children.”
Adele stepped forward. “Actually, Mom, before you finish, I have something for you.”
Penelope and Lucille carried out the white box, tied with a satin ribbon.
Maya blinked, then broke into a wider smile. “For me?”
“I have something for you.”
“For you,” Adele said. “Open it.”
Maya loosened the ribbon and lifted the lid.
At first, she just stared.
Inside were 15 envelopes, each marked with a year. Underneath were photos, invitations, programs, returned letters, printed emails, and my old notebook with its cracked spine.
