"That's adorable," she said, then quickly added, "And completely normal. Big changes deserve rehearsal sometimes."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the day settling around us.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally said. "Something serious?"
"Anything."
"Does it... does it bother you? That I still have her picture by my bed? That I still call her Mom too?"
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Oh, Holly. Of course not. She'll always be your mother. Nothing changes that—not adoption papers, not what you call me, nothing."
She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture so maternal it made my heart ache.
"Love isn't finite," she continued. "It's not like there's only so much to go around, and if you love her, you can't love me too. That's not how it works."
"How does it work then?" I asked, my voice small.
She considered this, her head tilting slightly. "I think... I think love is more like those photographs you take. Different angles, different perspectives, but all capturing something real and true. Your love for your mom is one perspective. Your love for me—for us—is another. Both genuine. Both yours."
It was perhaps the most perfect thing she could have said, framing it in the language of the art that had become my voice, my therapy, my joy.
"I like that," I whispered.
She smiled, standing up from the bed. "Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow with Paige's retreat. From what I've seen, it's a lot of work."
"Mom?" I said as she reached the door.
She turned, and the look on her face—tender, hopeful, a little awestruck—told me everything I needed to know about whether I'd made the right choice.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For... everything."
She nodded, no words necessary between us in that moment.
As she closed the door, I glanced at the photo of my mother on the nightstand, then up at the canopy of new images above my bed. Different perspectives. Different angles. Different chapters of the same story—my story.
33
ELYSE
The digital display on my laptop showed a familiar face. Dark hair threaded with silver, kind blue eyes creased at the corners, a wide, toothy smile that had kissed my cheek at every milestone of my life. Dad looked the same as always, though the background had changed from his usual office to the screened porch that overlooked Mom's treasured succulent garden. Not much else could grow in Arizona, although she'd tried like heck.
"So," he said, leaning closer to the camera, "how's my granddaughter doing with all this?"
"She's surprisingly good. Actually, she just left for the bakery. Jenna's teaching her how to make those hazelnut tortes Mom loves."
"Smart girl," Dad nodded. "Get on your grandmother's good side through baked goods. Time-tested strategy."
"A strategy you've employed yourself many times," I teased.
Dad laughed. "Fifty-seven years of marriage and counting. Must be working."
The sound of a door opening came from his end of the call. "Is that Elyse? Tell her I found that lemon extract recipe Holly was asking about!" Mom's voice called from offscreen.
"Mom says?—"
"I heard," I smiled. "Tell her thank you."
