An hour and a half later, after the burial at nearby Ben Hill Cemetery, they had returned to the church for the repast.

Everyone gathered in the spacious activity room in the basement that doubled as a dining hall. A couple of long serving tables had been set up, holding several silver chafing dishes full of food kept warm by low flames: fried chicken wings, baked tilapia, green beans, macaroni-and-cheese, meatballs, rice, collard greens, and more. Several dozen people sat at the circular tables spaced throughout the room, working through their meals and sipping cups of iced tea and soda. Laughter and smiles were everywhere. The repast was akin to a family reunion, an opportunity to break bread with friends and relatives who often saw one another only at the funeral of a loved one who had passed on.

Monica sat at a table in the corner with her family: Troy, Pat, the kids, and her mother. Her mother. Everyone else in the room might as well have been invisible to Monica, because she couldn’t stop gawking at the woman.

Monica barely remembered Lily’s burial service. When Troy had introduced Monica to her mother, she had passed out, apparently for a couple of minutes. Waking up to find her mother gently patting her hand and smiling at her had almost knocked her out again.

Everything since then had passed in a blur.

Her mother had waited behind at the church while Monica and her family had gone to the burial site; she claimed to abhor cemeteries and couldn’t bear to set foot on those grounds. Far from being upset, Monica had been terrified that her mother would be gone when they returned for the repast.

But she was still there.

I’m finally talking to my mother.

Monica and her mother looked so much alike that it gave Monica chills. If Monica had been granted a vision of herself, twenty or so years in the future, that vision would have appeared exactly like the woman sitting next to her. Their genetic bond was unmistakable, downright jarring to witness.

“I never imagined this day would actually come,” Monica was saying. “I mean, I did imagine it, but I never believed it would. I was afraid to hope for it, ‘cause, you know, I never knew much about you. I didn’t know if you were even still alive.”

Monica knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t help it. The words poured out of her: a lifetime of accumulated questions, and she craved answers to all of them.

“I understand, baby,” her mother said. She held Monica’s hand in her lap, and patted it gently. She had slender, but strong hands, Monica had noted, the hands of a woman who had worked hard for a living. “We’ve got so much we need to discuss. I feel fit to burst with it all, too.”