“Would you want to get some coffee?” I asked. “There’s a Bob Evans down the road. They have good pie.”
Clara looked at my hand. She reached out and squeezed my fingers. Her hand was rough and cold, but her grip was incredibly strong.
“I would love that,” she said.
We met at the diner the next morning. It was awkward at first. We talked about silly things, like the weather and how much we both hated Toledo transit traffic. But as the waitress poured our third cup of black coffee, Clara pulled a small, faded photograph out of her purse. It was a picture of her as a young girl, holding a yellow kitten.
She looked exactly like me.
I looked down at the gold butterfly bracelet on my wrist, catching the bright fluorescent light of the diner.
It wasn’t the perfect family reunion you see in the movies. It was messy, a little uncomfortable, and full of forty years of missed birthdays. But as I looked at Clara, I realized I didn’t just lose a mother when Martha died. I was given a chance to understand where I came from. And for the first time in three weeks, the house didn’t feel so empty.
✓
End of story — Part 5 of 5
