Then, just before my 55th birthday, Emily called to invite me to a special dinner. She picked me up in the convertible, handed me the keys with a flat, mechanical tone, and said, “Happy birthday. This is for you.” The gesture felt more like a duty than a heartfelt gift.
Emily explained that she had loved me all along but didn’t know how to say it, fearing it would betray her birth mom. The drawings were proof of her feelings. We embraced, both crying and laughing, finally bridging the gap between us.
The evening turned into a heartfelt conversation, revealing our fears and the unspoken bond we shared. For the first time, I truly felt like Emily’s mom.
