It was in the loose stitches repaired by my mother’s hands.
It was in the scent of lavender.
It was in the warmth that had passed from my grandmother’s shoulders to my mother’s, and finally to mine.
At the will reading, everyone believed I had received the least.
In truth, my mother had left me everything.
Not just her fortune.
Her faith.
Her gratitude.
Her history.
And the certainty that I had been deeply loved all along.
