I smiled.
“That sounds familiar.”
She looked at me with sudden tenderness.
“You do that, too?”
“Sometimes.”
She reached for her coffee.
“I used to sing when I was nervous. Terribly, according to my friends.”
I laughed.
“Mom Margaret says I used to sing to myself whenever I was upset.”
Sarah’s eyes widened.
“You did?”
“Apparently. She said I would invent songs about whatever had annoyed me.”
Sarah covered her mouth.
“I used to do exactly that.”
We stared at each other.
It was such a small detail, almost meaningless on its own. But it gave us something to share that wasn’t a medical record or an adoption document.
It was simply a piece of who we were.
Over time, I learned that Sarah loved old movies, hated driving in heavy rain, and kept handwritten birthday cards in a box beneath her bed.
She learned that I took my coffee with too much milk, that I cried at sentimental advertisements, and that I had once tried to bake a cake for Margaret and nearly set off the smoke alarm.
