“She hated roses,” he said.
That surprised me. “Everyone sent roses when she died.”
“She would have thrown them out.”
A laugh rose in my throat, gentler this time. “She loved daisies.”
“She said roses tried too hard.”
That sounded like her.
“What else?”
“She sang when she cooked. Badly.”
“She did.”
“She read the last page of books first.”
“She told me that was efficient.”
“She was afraid of deep water but loved boats.”
I looked at him.
He smiled faintly. “She said fear should not be allowed to make all the decisions.”
Tears warmed my eyes.
For so long, my mother had existed in my memory as my mother only. I had forgotten she had once been young. In love. Funny. Afraid. Brave in ways that had nothing to do with raising me alone.
“Why did she leave you?” I asked.
Adrian’s smile faded.
“Because I failed her.”
