“But I’m your mom now. Legally. Officially. That means I get to take care of you forever, if that’s okay with you.”
She looked up at me with Lila’s eyes. “Forever?”
“Forever.”
She launched herself into my arms. “Can I call you ‘Mommy’ then?”
“Yes!” I scooped her into my arms and cried.
Growing up together was messy and beautiful. I was young, trying to figure out motherhood on the fly. Miranda was grieving in ways she couldn’t articulate. We had screaming matches and slammed doors. Nights when she cried for Lila and I couldn’t fix it. And some mornings when I was so tired, I put orange juice in her cereal instead of milk, and we both laughed until we cried.
But we figured it out. One day at a time.
On her first day of middle school, she came home and announced she was joining the drama club.
“You hate being on stage,” I said, confused.
“But there’s no harm in trying!” she answered.
I helped her run lines for every play. Attended every performance. Cheered from the audience when she got her first lead role in eighth grade. She was playing Annie, and when she sang “Tomorrow,” I cried so hard the woman next to me offered me tissues.
“That’s my daughter,” I whispered, and saying it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
High school brought new challenges. Boys who broke Miranda’s heart. Friend drama that required late-night ice cream and terrible advice I had no business giving. The time she got her first speeding ticket and cried in my lap like she was seven again.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. Are you mad?”
“Terrified, yes. Mad? No.” I smoothed her hair back. “We all make mistakes, sweetheart. That’s what growing up is.”
She started working part-time at a bookstore in her junior year. She’d come home smelling like coffee and paper, telling me about customers and which books she’d recommended.
She was becoming a confident, funny, brilliant person who loved musical theater and terrible reality TV and helped me cook dinner on Sunday nights.
By the time Miranda turned 17, she was taller than I was. She’d stopped flinching when people asked about her family. She called me Mom without hesitation.
One night, we were washing dishes together after dinner, and she said, “You know I love you, right?”
I looked at her, surprised. “Of course I know that.”
“Good. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
I thought we were okay. I thought we’d made it through the hard part.
Her 18th birthday fell on a Saturday. We threw a party at our apartment for friends from school, my coworkers from the diner, and our neighbor, Mrs. Chan, who always brought homemade dumplings.
Miranda wore a gorgeous dress and laughed at every terrible joke my manager told. She blew out her candles and made a wish she wouldn’t tell me.
“You have to wait and see if it comes true,” she said with a mysterious smile.
That night, after everyone left, I was folding laundry in my room when Miranda suddenly appeared in the doorway with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Mom? Can we talk?”
Something in her voice made my stomach drop. I sat down on the bed.
“Of course, dear. What’s going on?”
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