maybe I really did belong in the last row by the door. With the strangers. With the guests.
But I know better now.
A real mother isn’t the one who gave birth to you. She isn’t the one with the gold place card. She
isn’t the one in the pictures.
A real mother is the one who’s still standing at the mailbox after everybody else has gone inside.
And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, one day you look up, and the little girl you waited for is
standing there too.
Holding out her hand.
