Mom noticed.
“Don’t look relieved.”
Melissa’s expression disappeared.
“You could have given me nothing,” Mom continued. “You could have written ‘Happy Birthday’ on a scrap of notebook paper and I would have loved it.”
“Then what did I do?”
Mom’s voice became quiet.
“You said, ‘At her age, she doesn’t need much.’”
Melissa stared at her.
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you upset?”
Mom took a long breath.
“Because I’m seventy, Melissa.”
She paused.
“I’m not finished.”
Nobody moved.
“I still like things. I still want to travel. I still get excited about plans. I still want people to think about me sometimes.”
Melissa’s eyes filled with tears.
Mom continued.
“I spent years telling both of you not to worry about me. Maybe I did that too well.”
Melissa wiped beneath one eye.
“I didn’t mean you weren’t worth anything.”
“I know you didn’t.”
Mom’s voice trembled slightly.
“But for one moment yesterday, that’s how it felt.”
Melissa sat down.
And for the first time since Mom opened the drawer, she stopped defending herself.
Her eyes drifted toward the scrapbook.
She picked it up.
Several pages had bent when she grabbed it earlier.
She carefully flattened one with her palm.
It contained a Mother’s Day card Melissa had made when she was seven.
The handwriting was crooked.
She had drawn Mom with purple hair because apparently we had owned only a handful of crayons.
Melissa laughed through her tears.
