Mom’s house feels wrong without her. Two weeks since ovarian cancer took her, I still smell her lavender cream, but the silence is heavy. My aunt calls, worried I’m not eating, but the casseroles from neighbors go untouched. Food can’t fill the void she left. Mom was my anchor, choosing me at five when I was a scared girl with a worn backpack. She and Dad, who had their son Mark, made me theirs. “This is home,” Mom said, her voice a promise. Mark, older and confident, was their biological child, but they treated us the same.
Dad was patient, teaching me to ride a bike, but his heart attack when I was 13 left Mom as my everything. She was at every recital, helped with homework, and soothed my heartbreaks. “Family is love,” she’d say against adoption stereotypes. After college, I worked nearby, cherishing our brunches and movie nights. Then cancer struck—stage three. “We’ll face it together,” I told her. For two years, I cared for her, from meals to hospice visits. Mark, in Chicago with his career and kids, came twice—once with flowers, once leaving the hospice quickly, unable to cope. Mom excused him, but his absence hurt her.
The funeral morning was clear, the kind Mom loved. I wore the dress she chose, my eulogy ready—a love letter to her. The church was full of her friends and former students. Mark, looking drained, had left planning to me. Before the service, he pulled me aside. “You can’t speak,” he said. “You’re adopted—no one wants your words.” The word “adopted” burned. Mom and Dad saw us as equals, but Mark’s pain turned to cruelty. I agreed, too hurt to fight. His eulogy was brief, missing Mom’s essence. I sat, my speech heavy in my purse, tears falling.
A hospice volunteer handed Mark an envelope from Mom. He read her letter aloud: “To Mark and Emily, my children. Love makes family, not blood. Mark, you were my fire. Emily, you were my chosen star.” The church fell silent. “Emily, share our words,” she wrote. Mark, regretful, invited me to speak. Shakily, I read our speech, sharing Mom’s kindness, her teaching, her apple pie, and her belief that family is love and presence. Tears and smiles filled the room—Mom’s legacy. Later, Mark apologized. “She loved you,” I said, echoing her advice to start anew. Walking back to the reception, I knew Mom’s letter had claimed me as her daughter, no podium needed.
