I opened the door. “Come in,” I said. “We’re not doing this without my mom.” She hesitated, then stepped inside. My mom sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her mug, face steady.
“Mom,” I said. “This is Karen.” Karen softened her tone. “Grace,” she said. “Thank you for raising her. I always trusted you’d do a good job.”
“You didn’t trust anything,” my mom said after a pause. “You left a newborn and walked away.” Karen’s jaw tightened. “You see it your way, I see it mine,” she said. “What matters is we both played our part.”
I walked to the bookshelf, grabbed a photo album, and placed it on the table. Karen frowned. “You want half of Doorstep and my car,” I said. “Because you claim this was your plan.” “Yes,” she said. “Because I had my role in bringing you into this world.”
I opened the album. Me as a baby on my mom’s chest. Me at birthdays, holidays, first days of school, school plays. High school graduation. College graduation. My mom in every photo. Holding me. Standing beside me. Sitting in the crowd.
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