"Tell me," I said.
She wrapped both hands around her cup.
She looked at the table, not at me.
"You were three weeks old," she said.
"The agency called on a Thursday.
Your father and I had been waiting for almost two years." She paused.
"We drove six hours to pick you up.
You were so small.
You slept the entire way home."
I let her talk.
I didn't interrupt.
"We always planned to tell you.
When you were old enough.
But there was never a right time, and then time just — kept going." She finally looked up.
"You were ours.
That was all we ever thought about.
You were ours from the moment we saw you."
"Who was she?" I asked.
My mother's expression shifted.
Something careful moved across her face.
"The agency didn't give us much.
A first name.
A general location.
They said she was young, that she was alone, that she had no way to provide for a child." She set her cup down.
