But laced all through them were moments of a sweetness I had never known, because for the first time in my adult life I was fully present for my mother, and she for me.

There were days she asked for homemade chicken soup, or cherry popsicles, or fresh peaches, and ate them with real pleasure.

There were mornings Maya toddled into her room babbling, and my mother opened her frail arms and lit up like a sunrise. Come here, my sweet girl.

And there were conversations we had never had in thirty years of my being her daughter.

I learned, that autumn, that before she met my father, my mother had dreamed of becoming an elementary school teacher.