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out and caught her wrist.
For nineteen years, I raised my sister’s abandoned baby as my own, but on his graduation day, she walked in carrying a cake that said “Congratulations From Your Real Mom” – and when my son stepped up to give his valedictorian speech, he looked straight at me and folded the paper in his hands.
“Mom,” he whispered, barely awake. “Don’t go.”
Myra froze in the doorway.
She did not know what to do with that word. She did not know where to place it inside herself. It had slipped out of him before he could think, before he could correct it, before the world could tell him what he was supposed to call her.
