His words spark something warm inside me, and I manage a watery smile. “I guess you’re right.”
“When are you telling Mom and Dad?”
“I thought I’d wait until the bye weeks, so our entire family is in one place without a party going on in the background. So later this month.”
“Fair enough. Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”
“Keep everything I told between us. Okay?”
Hunter hesitates. “I’ll try. But I don’t know how I’ll keep my mouth shut when we play against the Peacocks.”
I point a warning finger at him. “Don’t you dare to do anything stupid, Hunter Wayne Lavigne.”
He scowls. “Stop using my middle name like mom does.”
“Then stop pushing me,” I counter.
“Fine, fine. But seriously, who thought choosing our boys’ middle names after hockey legends was a clever idea?”
“At least none of us has Stanley in our name. That should mean something.”
“Maybe you can name my niece or nephew that.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
We both laugh, and for the first time tonight, the weight on my chest feels a little lighter.
The following morning, I sit cross-legged on the floor of my childhood bedroom. My fingers hover over a stack of photographs in the open box before me. I trace the curve of my biological mother’s smile in a faded Polaroid, committing it to memory once again. Still, I’m terrified I’ll never remember enough.
The door behind me creaks open, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I would recognize her steps anywhere. They’re much softer than my dad’s or brothers’.
“Cielito,” Mom says softly, using an old nickname of mine. “What are you doing up? It’s only seven.”
I swallow hard and turn to look at her. She’s standing in the doorway, wrapped in a soft pink robe, her mahogany brown hair loose around her shoulders. The warmth in her hazel eyes is the same as it’s always been.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur.
She lowers herself onto the floor beside me. “I thought I heard you moving around.”
Her gaze drops to the box, taking in the pictures, the yellowed letters, and pieces of jewelry my dad kept after my mother’s passing. Understanding dawns in her expression. “You’re looking for answers once again.”
I nod around the lump in my throat. “I don’t even know what I was hoping to find.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “Even if I don’t remember much, I miss her.”
Mom’s hand finds my hair, smoothing it back in that comforting way she’s had since I was a little girl. “Of course you do, Cielito.”
“I wish I had more time with her.”
She exhales, her fingers brushing over my cheek. “I wish that too, sweetie, even if my life would be very different if that was the case.”
“I…”
She waves her hand in dismissal. “Don’t even think about it. That’s life. But I hope you know how proud she would be of you.”
I let out a quiet, watery laugh. “You think so?”
“I know so.” She glances down at the photos and picks up one, her thumb running over the image. “This is exactly how I remember her. Always smiling. She had this way about her.”
“Tell me more,” I ask, thinking about how Gloria was my backup babysitter before becoming my nanny. She met my mother a few times.
