Catherine had spent thirty-two years missing hers.
We drove together.
Emily in the back seat.
Her choice.
She wanted space.
The rehabilitation center sat outside Asheville.
Rebecca had suffered a stroke the previous year after decades of untreated hypertension.
She had regained most speech but still had weakness on her right side.
When we entered, she was sitting beside a window.
Gray threaded through dark hair.
She was fifty-one.
Catherine stopped.
Rebecca looked up.
Neither moved.
Then Rebecca whispered:
“Mom?”
Catherine folded.
Emily grabbed her before she fell.
That was how Rebecca first touched her daughter's hand.
Not planned.
Not symbolic.
Emily catching the grandmother she'd never known as Catherine's knees gave out.
Rebecca began sobbing.
Catherine crossed the room.
She stopped one step away.
“Can I hug you?”
Rebecca laughed through tears.
“You always asked too many questions.”
Then they held each other.
Thirty-two years.
No sentence belongs there.
