Over the following months, our family found a new rhythm.
Mom and Grandma Margaret had Sunday breakfast together.
At first, their conversations were careful.
Sometimes awkward.
There were so many things they didn't know about each other.
Mom asked about Margaret's childhood.
Margaret asked about the adoptive parents who had raised Ruth.
They talked about school.
First jobs.
Broken hearts.
Weddings.
And the ordinary little memories that families often take for granted.
One afternoon, I found them sitting in Margaret's kitchen, looking through old photographs.
Mom was laughing.
“Emma did exactly the same thing when she was little.”
Grandma looked delighted.
“What?”
“She hated wearing shoes. The moment we got home, she'd kick them off and run through the garden.”
Grandma laughed.
“I was the same way!”
I stood in the doorway, smiling.
For decades, these two women had shared cups of tea and neighborhood gossip.
Now they were discovering little pieces of themselves reflected in each other.
