“Amelia,” she said at last, “we’re family.”
I looked at the screen for a moment before bringing it back to my ear.
“Funny how you remember that now,” I said, and ended the call.
I stood there for a while afterward, phone still in my hand, looking down at the life I had built.
Three years earlier, if someone had told me I’d be ending a call with my mother from the balcony of my own beachfront resort while a chef prepared brunch downstairs and my children ran barefoot across private sand, I would have assumed they were talking about someone else’s future. Someone more polished. Someone born luckier. Someone whose family had looked at her and seen possibility instead of a cautionary tale.
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