That one did both.
Nothing could return those lost decades.
Anna could never hear what Margaret had written in the missing four-page letter.
Margaret could never go back and hold a twelve-year-old girl who was checking the mailbox every afternoon.
There would be no reunion between them.
No chance to laugh about the misunderstanding.
No chance to say:
You were wanted.
You were loved.
I thought you wanted me to stay away.
But after more than fifty years, my mother finally knew something she had spent most of her life doubting.
Anna had loved her too.
For a while, none of us spoke.
Then Mom wiped her face.
Looked at the six items sitting untouched on the conveyor belt.
And said:
“I think I’d like to buy my groceries now.”
Helen laughed through her tears.
“Okay.”
She returned behind the counter.
Unlocked the register.
Turned the belt back on.
One by one, she scanned Mom’s groceries.
Bread.
Milk.
Tea.
Apples.
Soup.
Chocolate cake.
When it was time to pay, Mom took out her card.
Her hands were trembling again.
She tried to insert it into the reader.
Missed.
She tried a second time.
Missed again.
For half a second, I saw embarrassment cross her face.
I knew exactly what she was remembering.
The woman behind us.
The sigh.
