She stares as condensation rolls down the glass of lemonade, the tart-sweet memory of her mom’s recipe lingering at the back of her throat, a secret her mother took with her.
Her eyes return to the stack of papers she’d been organizing. Old and new stains on the edge of the top sheet show emotions felt over it.
Who is her real mother? She remembered Phillip finding his, but had no idea she’d one day embark on the same journey of self discovery, understanding or forgiveness. She knows all too well the false starts and dead ends she could face.