Maya and Lila stared at it like it was a snake.
“It’s a journal,” Karen said. “I wrote it for you—one for each of you. I’ve been writing in them every year since you were born. I wanted you to know that I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped loving you.”
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then Lila stepped forward.
“You think a journal makes up for eighteen years?” she asked. Her voice was calm, but there was a tremor beneath it. “You think you can just show up and hand us a gift and everything’s okay?”
Karen opened her mouth to speak, but Lila wasn’t done.
“You weren’t there for first steps,” Lila said. “You weren’t there for scraped knees. You weren’t there for school plays or parent-teacher conferences or the nights we cried ourselves to sleep wondering what was wrong with us.”
Maya stepped forward beside her sister.
“You gave us life,” she said. “And then you gave us up. You don’t get to show up now and pretend you’re a part of this.”
The room had gone quiet. People were staring.
Karen’s face crumpled. “I know I failed you,” she said. “I know I can’t undo the past. But I want to be part of your future. I want to try.”
I watched the girls exchange a glance. I’d seen that glance before. It was the look they gave each other when they’d already made up their minds.
“You can’t,” Maya said.
“Excuse me?” Karen asked.
