Page 113 of A Lesson In Beginning

She stepped out of the car, clinging to her father’s hand. She was older, of course, but I would know her anywhere. Those wild curls, those bright blue eyes; they were uniquely and unmistakably her. Even five years later, she still looked the same. My baby girl.

I swore every step they made towards us took an eternity. I wanted to run to her, to wrap her in my arms, but my feet stayed frozen to the floor. I was unable to move, unable to breathe, for fear this dream would vanish before my very eyes.

“Hello, Adah. I’m Steven.” The man introduced himself, holding his hand out to me, but I couldn’t even see it. My eyes fixated on the little girl before me. “And this is Abigail.”

A few seconds passed — seconds that felt like eternities — before I was finally able to push past the lump in my throat to speak. I cleared my throat painfully and spoke to my daughter for the first time in five years.

“Hello, Abigail. I’m Adah.” I managed to get the words out.

“Hello, Ms. Adah. It’s nice to meet you.” Her voice was just the same as before, though without the toddler wording; I would recognize it anywhere.

I knelt down, unable to stop myself, needing to see her more closely, to fill my vision with her and drink up every moment of this.

“That’s a beautiful dress you have on, Abigail.” I wanted to reach out and touch her, to run my fingers through her curls. I wanted to pull her to me and hold her close once more, to feel her heartbeat next to mine again.

“Thank you. Mom helped me pick it out.” She answered with a wide smile, those dimples coming to the surface just as they had all those years ago.

“Orange dresses aren’t easy to come by.” Maryanne chuckled lightly.

“Is orange your favorite color?” I asked her, my eyes scanning each and every feature, committing them all to memory.

“Yes, but not this kind. I like orange like the sunset.”

I chuckled, tears welling up in my eyes.

“It’s my favorite color, too, actually.” Her eyes scanned my face, brow furrowing as she seemed to search for something. Then her hand dropped away from her father’s, her small fingers reaching out to the small scar against my temple.

“I think I remember you.” Her words were so soft, so unsure. I stopped breathing; stopped moving for fear this moment between us would break. I didn’t dare say a word. “I remember this.” Her fingers touched my scar, and I nearly died, feeling her touch. It transported my mind back to the days when she was little, when she would squish my face between her tiny hands, giggling incessantly as we made silly animal noises and sang songs together.

“I remember you having a belly. I remember I lived with you. When I was little. Mom and Dad told me a little about it, but not much.”

I could only nod my head as she pieced together what she had been told and the fragments of memories she was now recalling from five years ago.

“That’s right. When you were very small.” I reiterated, barely trusting my voice.

“I remember your voice. We’d sing songs.” She spoke softly, as though she were picturing the distant memories.

“We did. We did lots of things together.”

“Mom said you weren’t the one who took me away. She said you were really nice.” My heart broke anew, ripping apart as her words struck home. I didn’t want her to have that pain, and yet I was grateful they weren’t keeping it from her either. “She said you loved me.”

“I did.” I barely choked out, my throat burning and tightening with emotion. “I still love you, Abigail. I never stopped. But your parents needed you back. I loved you so much that I had to make sure you made it back to them.”

I could hear the sounds of soft crying above me, but I would not allow myself a moment to look up. This moment was not for them. It was for me and Abigail. My first child. The first person I ever truly loved.

“Thank you for loving me enough to let me go.”

Maryanne and Steven both sobbed audibly at Abigail’s innocent yet incredibly perceptive words.

“Always.” I breathed, tears finally spilling down, unrestrained.

“Mom? Is it okay if I hug her?” She looked up at her mother, and I couldn’t help but follow. Steven had his arm wrapped around his wife, and both of them were openly crying at the rawness of the moment. But there was no judgment. No hatred. Only the emotional pain that healing brought with it.

“Of course, love. You can do anything you wish. Adah was your mother, too, when you were a baby.”

My eyes met Maryanne’s. Mother to mother, we shared a look, an understanding, and a love that only two mothers who loved the same child could share.

Before I could process anything, there she was. Abigail’s arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me in close and taking me back through it all. Through every moment of pain, every moment of trauma, every stab of grief that had plagued me through these years — all of it wiped clean in the healing embrace of an eight-year-old child.

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