She was upstairs settling the baby when I brought it inside.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I told myself I was just checking for damage.
I opened it.
And felt something sink in my chest.
Inside was a professionally framed photo of her graduating class. Rows of smiling faces. Names I’d heard in stories but never met.
Across the white border were signatures — dozens of them. Bold strokes. Looping handwriting. Familiar names.
There was a note taped to the back.
“We missed you.
Maria told us what happened. Being a mom IS something to be proud of. You’re raising three human beings — that’s harder than any title we have.
Come next time. We’ll save you a seat.”
Maria.
Her best friend. The surgeon. The one I had casually referenced as an example of “real success.”
I sat there staring at the frame.
