Friend is a Four Letter Word

Shayna

I race down to my car and pop the glove box open. I can't believe I forgot it there all of these weeks. No matter what it was, I should have at least sent a thank you to my mom. That's proper. That's how she raised me.

She raised me. I repeat in my head.

She's my mother.

I'm glad that Carter is going to talk to Quinn—and I'm even happier about the little bit of quiet that I have to open the gift.

I sink deep into the cushions of the sofa and set the box neatly on my lap. I don't know what I'm waiting for. Mostly I just feel scared. Scared that it's some final tie being cut. I guess it would serve me right after dropping off the face of the earth all of these months. I think I suppressed the anger and betrayal I felt about them lying to me about my birth parents for so long that when it finally hit me, I didn't know how to deal.

So I left.

I'm not going to say that I regret it. It brought me to Carter. But I regret cutting them off completely. I need to make things right. Maybe Carter is right. Maybe asking them to come out would be a good first step. And if Carter can tell Quinn the truth—I can confront my own parents about my adoption. Because one thing hasn't changed in my mind—they are my parents.

I slip the lavender ribbon off and open the lid of the box.

Inside, resting on top of a white, cloud like pillow of tissue paper is a dainty necklace. It's a simple silver chain with a clear, resin orb on the end. I raise it up to the light to see what's inside the glass ball. It's a dandelion.

My lips curl into a smile as I instantly remember all of the afternoons I spent picking dandelions behind the parsonage with my mom when I was little. I'd collect dozens of them and then sit on the back porch and insist on making a wish on every single one—blowing on the buds and sending those feather light petals floating into the air. It took me hours to collect them and then wish on each one, but Mom never lost patience with me.

Inside the box is a tiny card with my mom's familiar handwriting. The same cursive that is in every birthday card I've ever been given by her, every note about dinner, every Valentine in my lunch box, every inscription in each bible I was gifted. I run my finger over the familiar lettering.

 Shayna:

Float free my girl.

Never stop wishing. Never stop dreaming. You'll find your way.

Your dad and I love you.

Always,

Mom

I feel my throat tighten with the emotion I can't push down and bury deep inside me anymore. I am my mother's daughter. And I miss her.

I slide my phone out of my purse and tap on her name and hold my breath as it starts to ring.

"Shayna!" Mom's voice beams as soon as she answers. I pull the phone back and inspect it, surprised for a second that she knew it was me before my nerves remind me that I'm an idiot and of course her phone alerted her that it was me.

"Mom," I start. "I just—I opened the gift that you sent. I'm so sorry that I didn't get to it sooner—"

"That's okay," Mom says.

"No, no it's not. I meant to save it to open for a quiet moment and I just—I love it. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome, Shayna. Are you okay?"

I smile because I am. I so am. "I'm great."

"You have enough money? Your dad and I left your credit card on—we wanted to make sure you weren't hungry—we've been so worried."

"I know. Nolan came to see me."

"He told us. He's a good man."

"He is." I say, tightly. "For someone else."

"We understand that now, Shayna. You being gone has been a learning experience for us, too. We didn't mean to force anything on you. We only wanted to make sure you were okay, well taken care of. We just wanted you to be alright. I'm sorry if pushing you in his direction made you leave."

"Nolan didn't make me leave, Mom."

"How are things over there? What are your plans? Am I allowed to ask that?" Her voice is full of trepidation. It reminds me of the way she speaks to the congregants that come to the church in need of some kind of assistance. Help with their electric bill, a gift to put under their tree for their child. Mom always wants to offer help without asking any questions that might offend. She needs details in order to help, but she's always thoughtful, each word selected with care. That is not how she should have to talk to her own daughter.

I clear my throat and suddenly feel a wave of nausea wash over me as I prepare to speak the next words.

"I know." Even though I'm alone in the apartment, I still have the immediate urge to hide after uttering the words. To pull a blanket over my head and my heart.

"You know what?"

"I heard you and Dad talking last Christmas. I know that... I know that you adopted me."

I count the breaths on the other end of the line.

I can almost see my mom jingling her gold bracelets with clammy hands, her shoulders tight, breath bursting in and out of her sharp and fast.

"Mom?" I don't know what I'll do if she denies it. I can't handle anymore secrets in my life.

"I don't—I don't know what to say, Shayna."

"I thought—I mean, I was angry for the longest time that you hid it from me, even if I understood your reasons—at least the ones I heard you and Dad talking about that night. How you wanted to protect me from the image of who my real parents were."

"And that's why you left?" she asks.

"No."

"I don't understand."

"When I heard you—something clicked inside of me. All of the years of feeling like I didn't fit in within my own family suddenly made sense to me," I say. I take a deep breath before speaking again. "I was determined to try to fit that mold once and for all. But I couldn't. I tried with Nolan, but it just never felt right. Nothing felt right. And that's why I left."

"You're our daughter," Mom says. Her voice sounds weepy and it makes me choke up. "No matter what you do. No matter who you date. You've been our daughter since the day we brought you home. We've loved you since the second we saw you. Never doubt that Shayna. We are your real parents, Shayna, in every way that matters."

I swallow hard. "I know that."

We both sit in silence for several minutes before my mom finally speaks again.

"We can give you all of the information that we have on them—your birth mother and your biological father. It isn't much, but if you want it—"

"I don't," I say. Maybe someday that will change, but right now, I've never felt more sure of anything. I am the daughter of Pastor David and Trish Gillan.

"We owed you honesty, my girl," Mom says, regret hanging heavily in her words.

I feel my throat pinch with the tightness that comes from holding in your tears. "I owed you and Dad a lot of honesty—a lot of things, too."

In the end, we don't solve everything with one phone call. But it's a start. We talk about Dad. We talk about school and we even talk about Carter. Mostly, the conversation is just full of truth. I'm slowly learning that that's all that really matters when you love someone.