“I ruined my makeup,” she said.
“You look beautiful.”
“You’re supposed to say that.”
“I’m your mother. It’s legally required.”
She laughed.
It was the same laugh she’d had when she was five years old.
For one tiny second, I saw that little girl again.
Then Jane reached beneath her graduation gown and pulled out a cream-colored envelope.
My name was written across the front.
“Mom,” she said quietly, “there’s one more thing.”
I stared at it.
“Jane, if this is another surprise, I don’t think my heart can take it.”
“You’ll survive.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
She smiled but didn’t laugh this time.
“Open it.”
I slid my finger beneath the flap.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
At the top was the logo of a local automobile dealership.
For several seconds, the words didn’t make sense.
