I was scared, Shelby.
Scared of you. Scared of what you’d say to me, how you’d feel about me, if you knew who I was. I’ve said I would understand if you hated me, and I mean that. But I couldn’t bear to actually hear those words from your mouth. It was easier to keep you as a sweet little dream and not have to deal with the ugly reality of making amends for my past.
But I couldn’t move far away, either. I couldn’t simply leave you behind. So I moved to the little resort town of Martin’s Point on the far side of the county, and I got a job at an ice cream shop. My claim to fame was suggesting a flavor called Ursulina Poop — chocolate-hazelnut ice cream swirled with fudge and studded with nuts and malted milk balls — which became their biggest seller. It was part-time seasonal work, but I still had some money in the bank, enough to live a frugal life in a little apartment. I was an independent soul growing up, and I still am. I didn’t really need people, and after years behind bars, I found it hard to be around others for any length of time. I spent my days quietly. I had the library, and I had the national forest.
Yes, I still hiked whenever I could.
I still listened.
But in all these years, I’ve never heard it again. Hufffffff.
Every now and then, I found an update about you, a bit of news to make my heart sing. I saw you in the newspaper from time to time. A couple of times, you even came into the ice cream shop, but I deliberately stayed in the back and didn’t talk to you. You had your life, Shelby, and you didn’t need me in it. I simply watched you quietly and enjoyed what I saw. You looked beautiful and strong. A little lonely like me, maybe, but no one has a perfect life. Still, you looked happy.
That was all I needed to know.
It was fifteen years later when I saw the news about you becoming sheriff of Mittel County. I couldn’t have been prouder.
But not even another year after that, my heart broke when I read in the paper that Tom had passed away. I remembered his fears from years earlier that he would suffer early dementia, the way his parents had, and tragically, those fears were realized. He was only sixty-six, just four years older than I was. I’d lost the love of my life.
I couldn’t stay away from his funeral. I had to be there. I drove to the little church on that Saturday afternoon, but I had to struggle to find a seat, because the church was packed with mourners and friends. People came from miles away. Everyone knew Tom. Everyone loved and respected him. And they felt that way about you, too, Shelby. I could see that. There were so many tears, so many people who stood up and talked about what Tom had done for them, what Tom had meant to them.
The eulogy you gave him made me sob, Shelby. You talked about him finding you on his doorstep. You talked about the life he’d given you. You cried, smiled, laughed, and joked. You stood up there with my dark hair and my dark eyes, and you got through that awful day in a way that would have made Tom proud. You were just what I’d always wanted you to be. Fearless.
I wished I had the courage myself to go up to you and tell you my story. To tell you our story. To explain, to help you understand, to answer the questions you had. I already knew what I would say when it came to that, when we were finally together, because I’d had those first words in my head for years.
I know you’ll never forgive me for what I did.
But it was too late for ancient history.
So I waited until the very end, until everyone else was gone, and then I had to go to the front of the church and look at that wonderful man in his coffin, with his silver hair and a face that had a sweetness and grace even in death. I put a finger on my lips, and then I put that finger on his lips, and I whispered through my tears, “Thank you, Tom.”
And when I turned to go, there you were in front of me.
Shelby. My little baby, now thirty-five years old. The sheriff of this county in your crisp, pressed uniform. Courageous, lovely, even when you were heartsick with grief. You’d just lost your father, and I was the woman who’d given you away.
“Hello,” you said to me.
It was the first time my daughter had ever spoken to me, and I had to choke out my own reply. “Hello.”
“I’m Shelby. Tom’s child.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Have we met before? You look familiar to me.”
“No, I’m sure we haven’t. My name’s Rebecca. Rebecca Colder.”
“How did you know my father?”
I tried to figure out what to say. How do you say anything, when your heart is so full and so broken at the same time?
“A long time ago, he saved my life,” I said.
“How did he do that?”
I wanted to tell you the truth, Shelby, because the truth was simple. By saving you. But nothing about my life was simple.
“I was in trouble a long time ago, and he got me out of it,” I said.
“I’m glad.”
“He was a wonderful man.”
“Yes, he was.” Then you added, “I was very lucky to have him.”
“I’m sure he felt the same way about you,” I said, wishing I could reach out and take your hand. Hug you. Put my hands on your cheeks. Tell you about that day in the snow with Tom and the little Easter basket and the hundreds of letters to you that are still in a box under my bed.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I went on.
“Thank you.”
That really should have been all. That should have been the end. I wasn’t about to ask you or God for anything more. I’d already been blessed far more than I deserved in life. So I took a last glance at Tom’s peaceful face, I smiled into my daughter’s lovely dark eyes, and I walked away down the aisle of the church to live the rest of my life alone.
That was when you called after me, Shelby.
It was just the two of us in the church, and you called after me with a strange, hopeful certainty in your voice. I heard you walking down the aisle behind me, your steps getting faster as if you didn’t want me to leave. Then you said the one word I’d wanted to hear from your lips since I first held you in my arms.
“Mom?”