Three nights later, she showed up outside the house. She was barefoot, mascara streaked, and screamed my name like it still held meaning. I stood inside the front hallway, arms crossed, watching through the peephole until the police arrived.
The next morning, I filed the restraining order. I had to keep my sisters safe.
A week later, the girls’ adoption was finalized.
Maya cried quietly in the judge’s office. It wasn’t loud or messy — just soft tears that slipped down her cheeks as she signed her name on the paperwork. Lily leaned over and handed her a tissue.
“We won’t be separated now,” Lily said.
My heart broke. I hadn’t realized their fears until that moment.
That night, we made spaghetti for dinner. Lily stirred the sauce. Maya danced around the kitchen holding the parmesan like it was a microphone. I let them play their music loudly.
When we finally sat down, Maya tapped my wrist.
“Can we light a candle for Mommy?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Lily lit it herself and whispered something I didn’t catch. After we ate, she leaned into my arm.
“We knew you’d choose us,” she said.
I swallowed hard.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. So I didn’t pretend. I just let the tears fall. I let them see me cry.
