“He’s moved on, Dorothy. It’s time you did, too.”
When my son was born, he curled his fingers around mine before I’d even worked out how to hold him.
When he opened his mouth, I thought he might cry.
“Hello,” I whispered. “I’m your mom.”
I studied the tiny crease above his nose and the dark hair flattened against his head. When he opened his mouth, I thought he might cry, but he only yawned.
The woman who came for him waited quietly beside my bed.
“May I?”
“Just another minute.”
I had to loosen them myself.
My mother reached for my hand. “Dorothy. You signed.”
I tucked the blanket beneath his chin twice. When I finally lifted him toward the woman, his fingers caught my gown. I had to loosen them myself.
Years later, I had a job, an apartment, and a phone I could leave ringing when my mother called.
But every birthday, I counted.
“Dorothy. You signed.”
Five. Eight. Ten.
I wondered whether he hated peas, whether someone checked his forehead when he was sick, whether he ever asked about me.
I never let myself imagine seeing him again.
Then, ten years after my mother took me away, I heard someone call my name—and turned toward the one person I had tried hardest to stop missing.
