Mother’s Day cards.
And two small notebooks filled with dates and numbers I hadn’t understood.
Suddenly, I had an idea.
“Mom,” I said, “I actually forgot your real present at home. Can we do gifts again tomorrow?”
Melissa laughed.
“You forgot her birthday present?”
I ignored her.
The following afternoon, everyone came back for leftover cake.
This time, I placed a large wrapped box in front of Mom.
Melissa leaned back with an amused expression.
Mom opened it.
Inside was a scrapbook I had made using copies of the things she had saved from our childhood.
Old photographs.
Little handwritten notes.
Mother’s Day cards.
Drawings.
Memories from decades ago.
Mom covered her mouth.
“Oh, Amanda…”
She slowly turned the pages.
Then she reached the final section.
Her smile vanished.
I hadn’t intentionally placed anything shocking there.
I had simply copied one page from the old notebook because I thought it was part of our family history.
Melissa suddenly stood.
“Where did you get that?”
I looked at her.
“Mom’s box. Why?”
She grabbed the scrapbook and flipped through the pages.
