My eyes burned.
Adele turned a page. "Year six. Shannon called her teacher 'Mom' by accident and cried in the car. I told her families come in different shapes. I waited until she fell asleep before I cried."
"I told her she was loved."
At the very bottom of the box sat an empty frame with a small card inside.
"The mother-daughter photo we never got."
"Oh my God. How dare you?" Maya screamed.
Adele stayed calm. "You came here worried about how you'd look in front of your new family. So I wanted them to see the family you left behind."
Maya turned on me. "Say something, Robert. Tell her this isn't the whole story."
"Oh my God."
I stood.
"It isn't," I said.
Maya's face shifted, like she thought I might save her.
"The whole story is worse. I begged you to call. I begged you to send cards. I begged you to remember they were little girls, not furniture you left in a house you outgrew."
