She shakes her head. “I thought I’d have more time.”

“How much do you know?” I ask. “About us now?”

“Only some things,” she answers. “Tell me, what happened after we died?”

I take a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to hear? It’s not . . . pretty.”

She clutches a hand to her heart. “My children’s pain will always be mine, too, Lor. I knew that from the moment I laid eyes on your brother. It is the lot of a mother to wear her heart outside of herself from the moment her children are born.”

“Okay,” I say, again laying out my truth.

And this time, it is the truth. I give her everything. Every ugly moment and every secret I know. She accepts it all with stoicism, but I see the pain that passes behind her eyes.

She doesn’t ask me to stop. She doesn’t ask for anything but the cold, unvarnished truth.

When I’m done speaking, I feel like I’ve been talking for hours, my throat hoarse and sweat beading on my forehead. She started crying a while ago, quiet tears running down her face.

“I’m so sorry, Lor. I wish . . .”

I take her hand and squeeze it. “No. Let’s not do that. Let’s not make this anyone’s fault but those who caused all of this. I admit I’ve spent time being angry with you for leaving us all in the dark, but I understand it, too. I love you, and I miss you, and I don’t want to spend whatever time we have here debating who was right or wrong. I know that you did your best.”

The words come out in a rush, and the look she gives me nearly breaks my heart. She touches my cheek in the way only a mother can and smiles.

“I knew you would grow up to be someone remarkable, Lor. I knew your heart was always as big as the sea. Even when you seemed intent on making foolish decisions, you’d always find a way to come back from them.”

I can’t help the tears that continue to fall. They come in coursing, endless waves, channeling every moment that I’ve missed this woman with every piece of my heart. She wraps me in her arms as I cry and cry, giving everything to my mother, who couldn’t be there to comfort me through the years. They wash away a darkened slice of my soul that I thought was broken forever, her love and her touch healing over scabbed wounds scratched deep under the surface.

It is a cleansing. A rebirth. But I already know I won’t be allowed to keep her forever.

As I cry, she cries too, and after a while, we finally pull away again.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, and my mother shakes her head.