Grandma's cheeks turned pink.
She looked embarrassed.
But she was smiling.
And I knew that the woman who had once whispered for help through a basement door had finally found her voice again.
ONE YEAR LATER
On a sunny afternoon in early June, our family gathered in Grandma Margaret's backyard for a birthday celebration.
It was Mom's sixty-sixth birthday.
For the first time in her life, she was celebrating with both the family she had built and the woman who had given birth to her.
Grandma had spent two days preparing a cake.
She insisted on making it herself.
I offered to help.
She waved me away.
“Emma, I have been baking cakes longer than you've been alive.”
I laughed.
“Yes, Grandma.”
“And don't you forget it.”
When Mom arrived, the garden was decorated with yellow ribbons and white flowers.
A small table stood beneath the apple tree.
On it was a beautiful cake with two candles shaped like the numbers six and six.
