And felt something inside me drop.
Inside was a large, professionally framed photo of her graduating class. Rows of smiling faces. People I’d heard stories about over the years but never met.
Across the white border were signatures. Dozens of them. Some bold, some looping, some hurried.
I found a note taped to the back.
“We missed you!
Maria told us what happened. Being a mom IS something to be proud of. You’re raising three human beings—that’s harder than any title we have.
Come next time. We’ll save you a seat.”
My chest tightened.
Maria.
Her best friend from high school. The one who became a surgeon. The one I had casually pointed to as an example of “real success” without thinking.
I sat there staring at that photo.
I thought about Anna at twenty-two, pregnant with our first child while her friends were packing for internships and grad school. I thought about the nights she paced the living room with colicky babies while I slept because I “had meetings in the morning.” I thought about birthday parties she planned down to the smallest detail. The lunches she packed. The doctor appointments she remembered. The tiny sneakers she lined up by the door every night.
I thought about how easily I had reduced all of that to one word: just.
Anna came downstairs and stopped when she saw me at the table, the frame propped up in front of me.
“You opened it,” she said.
She didn’t sound angry.
She sounded tired.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. My voice didn’t feel steady. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was wrong.”
She didn’t answer right away. She walked over and ran her fingers across the signatures, lingering on familiar names.
“They didn’t forget me,” she murmured. “I thought maybe they had.”
