Mom’s absence is a weight I carry everywhere. Two weeks after ovarian cancer stole her, I still expect to hear her humming in the kitchen. Her lavender scent lingers in the house, but it’s too quiet now. My aunt checks on me, worried I’m not eating, but the food from neighbors sits untouched. Grief has dulled my appetite. Mom wasn’t just my mother—she was my home. Adopted at five, I was a shy girl with a heavy backpack and heavier fears. Mom and Dad, who had their son Mark, welcomed me as their own. “You’re our daughter,” Mom said, tucking me in that first night.
Mark was older, with Mom’s charm and Dad’s confidence. Dad taught me to ride a bike, but when he died of a heart attack eight years later, Mom became my everything. She was at every school event, helped with projects, and held me through heartbreaks. “Love makes a family,” she’d say when adoption comments stung. After college, I stayed close, working nearby to share weekends and holidays with her. Then cancer came—stage three, relentless. “We’ll fight,” I promised. For two years, I was there, cooking, caring, and holding her hand through pain. Mark, busy in Chicago with his family, visited twice—once with flowers, once fleeing the hospice because it was “too much.”
Mom never blamed him, saying he needed time, but her eyes betrayed her sadness. The funeral day was bright, like Mom’s favorite autumn days. I wore the dress she loved, my eulogy folded in my purse—a tribute to her love. The church buzzed with her friends and former students. Mark, looking tired, barely spoke to me during planning. Just before the service, he stopped me. “Don’t speak,” he said sharply. “You’re adopted—no one cares what you say.” The word “adopted” hit like a betrayal. Mom and Dad never saw us differently, but Mark’s grief made him cruel. I nodded, too stunned to argue.
His eulogy was safe, a few memories that didn’t touch Mom’s spirit. I sat, tears falling, my words silenced. Then a hospice worker gave Mark an envelope from Mom. He read her letter aloud, voice trembling: “To Mark and Emily, my children. Love, not blood, makes family. Mark, you were my joy. Emily, you were my chosen light.” The room hushed. “Emily, read our words,” she wrote. Mark, ashamed, asked me to speak. At the podium, I shared Mom’s warmth, her teaching legacy, her secret pie recipe, and her lesson that family is love and showing up. The crowd wept and smiled—Mom’s kind of moment. Later, Mark apologized, admitting his mistake. “She never gave up on you,” I said, urging him not to waste more time. Mom’s letter proved I was her daughter, no speech required.
