My heart pounded because I had never seen it before.
On top sat a card in Maya's handwriting:
"GO AWAY. WE DON'T NEED YOU."
Beneath it were torn photographs of Natalie and a stack of worn Mother's Day cards, some made from construction paper, one dusted with glitter that had long since spread to everything else, and a small paper flower Rosie must have made when she was still too little to understand who she was making it for.
Natalie grabbed through them with shaking hands. "What is this?"
Maya answered softly. "Everything we made for you when you didn't come."
Then Owen stood up and pointed to one of the older cards. "That one was mine. I was seven."
"Everything we made for you when you didn't come."
Ellie lifted another. "Mine says I saved you dessert."
June, already crying, said, "Mine says maybe Mommy comes back next year."
Then Maya took the final card and read it out loud without handing it over.
"We don't need a mother anymore."
The words settled in the room.
"You didn't just leave me," I said. "You left five children who kept waiting at windows when they thought I wasn't watching." My voice broke on the last word.
