“My baby,” she whispered.
I rushed to her bedside.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
We simply held each other and cried.
Sixteen years of hurt dissolved into a single embrace.
Later, we talked.
About the past.
About mistakes.
About forgiveness.
About family.
About all the years we had lost.
Just before midnight, she squeezed my hand and looked at both of us—her children, finally together.
A peaceful smile crossed her face.
Then she closed her eyes.
And quietly slipped away.
That night, I lost my mother.
But in her final act of love, she gave me something I thought was gone forever.
A family.
Today, Emma and I celebrate every birthday together.
And every year, without fail, we buy a chocolate cake.
Not because of what it cost.
But because four dollars turned out to be the price of finding our way home.
You’ve just read I Helped a Girl Buy a Birthday Cake. Why not read Think You’re Buying Real Honey.
