Later, Tara sat at my kitchen table crying with one hand over her mouth.
I remained across from her.
“Can I sit closer?” I asked.
She wiped away a tear.
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
After a while, she looked at the cedar box.
“You really kept all this?”
“Every piece I could.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed proof you were real when everyone else wanted me to move on.”
Her face crumpled again.
“I don’t know how to be your daughter.”
My own tears fell.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t know how to be your mother at twenty-eight yet.”
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