She sees the picture at my side and takes a deep breath. “She did,” she says, sounding ready to wrap me up in her arms. Like when I was little and scraped my knees. “She showed up on your third birthday. We didn’t even know that she was coming.”

“And then she left again?”

She nods.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “So she left me twice, then?”

“Yes, she did . . . but—”

“Why didn’t you make her staaaay?” I interrupt. The sound of the last word, the way I draw out the vowel, makes me hear how much I wanted that.

“She left because . . . well . . . because . . .”

“Just tell me, please.”

I know my grammy. She is standing there trying to think of a way to soften the news. Of how my mother wanted to leave again and she and Papa begged her to stay but she wouldn’t. I know she’s trying to be kind, but it begins to walk up my back, and I snap, “Grammy!”

She steps forward. “She wasn’t ready to be your momma.”

“What do you mean? She thought it was too much trouble? Like, too much work or something?”

“No.” Grammy begins to tear up, making her eyes look bluer. “She . . . Well, Delsie. The truth . . . the truth . . . is that I made her go.”

It’s like she speaks a foreign language. I don’t understand. “Wh-what? You made her go? She wanted to stay?”

She nods. “Well, it was a long time ago now,” she tells me. “And the problem was that she was doing things a person just shouldn’t be doing when they are taking care of a child. I told her over and over that anytime she wanted to quit those things and be the mother you needed, she was welcome back.”

I pace when I want to sprint.

This whole thing feels like the world has flipped upside down and I’m dangling, just trying to hold on. I make a sound like a puppy who’s been stepped on.

“It’s okay,” she whispers.

“It’s not okay!” I say even louder than I expected. “How could you do that?”

“I didn’t have a choice, baby. I. Didn’t.”

“What do you mean? Of course you had a choice.”

“Well, if she were the mother you imagine, or the one you deserve, it would have been easy.” She leans forward, and it sounds like she’s begging. “I miss her, too, you know.”

I stop pacing and look at Grammy.

“Mellie—your momma—had many special gifts. She was smart and caring and funny—but those parts of her got lost. And even if she isn’t here now, you carry the good parts of her inside.”

“I don’t want to carry her inside. I want her to paint my toenails and show me how to put on makeup and just have a mom like everyone else does.”

That hurts her, I can tell.