"Are you sure?"
She nodded.
"I have something planned."
There was no bitterness in her voice.
Only confidence.
I trusted her.
The Wedding Day
The ceremony was beautiful.
Friends and relatives filled the room.
Laughter echoed through the reception hall.
Watching my daughters together brought tears to my eyes.
Then the doors opened.
Maya entered wearing an elegant designer gown and expensive jewelry.
She looked confident.
Almost proud.
Many guests whispered, assuming she had always been part of our lives.
She walked directly toward Adele.
"My sweetheart," she said dramatically.
"We're finally together again."
Then she glanced toward me.
"You have to understand... everything that happened was your father's fault."
The room became uncomfortably quiet.
Adele simply smiled.
"Mom," she said gently.
"I'm glad you came."
Maya relaxed.
Then Adele continued.
"Would you mind standing in the center of the room?"
Curious guests stepped aside.
A large gift box was rolled forward.
Maya smiled confidently.
"I knew you'd prepared something special."
She removed the ribbon.
Lifted the lid.
Inside wasn't jewelry.
Or flowers.
Or a luxury gift.
Instead, she found fifteen carefully wrapped packages.
Each package carried a handwritten date.
Every birthday she had missed.
Every Christmas.
Every graduation.
Every Mother's Day.
Every dance recital.
Every milestone.
Alongside each gift was a photograph.
A tiny pair of ballet shoes.
A school certificate.
A report card.
A family Christmas picture—with an empty chair where she should have been.
A Father's Day drawing that one daughter had accidentally labeled "Mom and Dad."
She had never been there to see it.
The final envelope contained six handwritten letters.
One from each daughter.
None had ever been mailed.
Each began the same way.
"Dear Mom..."
One asked why she never called.
Another wondered whether she'd forgotten birthdays.
One simply said:
"I hope you're happy."
The youngest wrote:
"I don't remember your voice."
The room fell silent.
Maya's smile disappeared.
