She launched herself into my arms. "Can I call you 'Mommy' then?"
"Yes!" I scooped her into my arms and cried.
Growing up together was messy and beautiful. I was young, trying to figure out motherhood on the fly. Miranda was grieving in ways she couldn't articulate. We had screaming matches and slammed doors. Nights when she cried for Lila and I couldn't fix it. And some mornings when I was so tired, I put orange juice in her cereal instead of milk, and we both laughed until we cried.
But we figured it out. One day at a time.
On her first day of middle school, she came home and announced she was joining the drama club.
"You hate being on stage," I said, confused.
"But there's no harm in trying!" she answered.
I helped her run lines for every play. Attended every performance. Cheered from the audience when she got her first lead role in eighth grade. She was playing Annie, and when she sang "Tomorrow," I cried so hard the woman next to me offered me tissues.
"That's my daughter," I whispered, and saying it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
High school brought new challenges. Boys who broke Miranda's heart. Friend drama that required late-night ice cream and terrible advice I had no business giving. The time she got her first speeding ticket and cried in my lap like she was seven again.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry. Are you mad?"
"Terrified, yes. Mad? No." I smoothed her hair back. "We all make mistakes, sweetheart. That's what growing up is."
She started working part-time at a bookstore in her junior year. She'd come home smelling like coffee and paper, telling me about customers and which books she'd recommended.
She was becoming a confident, funny, brilliant person who loved musical theater and terrible reality TV and helped me cook dinner on Sunday nights.
By the time Miranda turned 17, she was taller than I was. She'd stopped flinching when people asked about her family. She called me Mom without hesitation.
One night, we were washing dishes together after dinner, and she said, "You know I love you, right?"
I looked at her, surprised. "Of course I know that."
"Good. I just wanted to make sure you knew."
I thought we were okay. I thought we'd made it through the hard part.
Her 18th birthday fell on a Saturday. We threw a party at our apartment for friends from school, my coworkers from the diner, and our neighbor, Mrs. Chan, who always brought homemade dumplings.
Miranda wore a gorgeous dress and laughed at every terrible joke my manager told. She blew out her candles and made a wish she wouldn't tell me.
"You have to wait and see if it comes true," she said with a mysterious smile.
That night, after everyone left, I was folding laundry in my room when Miranda suddenly appeared in the doorway with an expression I couldn't read.
"Mom? Can we talk?"
Something in her voice made my stomach drop. I sat down on the bed.
"Of course, dear. What's going on?"
She walked in slowly, her hands shoved deep in her hoodie pockets. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
"I'm 18 now."
"I know," I said, smiling. "Old enough to vote. To buy lottery tickets. To legally ignore my advice."
She didn't smile.
"I got access to the money this week. From my mom, Lila. The insurance payout. Her savings account. Everything she left me."
My heart raced. We'd never really talked about Lila's money. I'd set up a trust when I adopted Miranda, made sure every penny went untouched until she was old enough to decide what to do with it. I'd even told her about it right from the start.
"That's good," I managed. "That's your money, sweetheart. You can do whatever you want with it."
She finally looked at me. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish.
"I know what I want to do with it."
"Okay."
She took a shaky breath. "You need to pack your things."
The room tilted. The words bounced around in my head without landing anywhere.
"What?"
"You need to pack your things! I'm serious."
I stood up. My legs felt weak. "Miranda, I don't understand what you're saying."
"I'm legally an adult. I can make my own decisions now."
"Yes, of course you can, but..."
"So I'm making one." Her voice was trembling but determined. "You need to pack your things. Soon."
Every fear I'd carried since childhood came rushing back at once: the certainty that love was temporary, that people leave, that I'd always been one mistake away from losing everything.
"You want me to leave?" My voice cracked.
"Yes. No. I mean..." She fumbled with something in her pocket. "Just read this first."
She pulled out an envelope. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it.
I took it because I didn't know what else to do. I opened it and pulled out a letter written in Miranda's messy handwriting:
"Mom,
I've been planning this for six months. Since the day I realized I'd spent 13 years watching you give up everything for me.
You gave up promotions because you couldn't work nights. You gave up relationships because you didn't want me to get attached to anyone who might leave. You gave up the trip to South America you'd been saving for since before I was born because I needed braces.
You gave up having a life because you were too busy making sure I had one.
So I used some of my mom Lila's money. And I booked us two months in Mexico and Brazil. Every place you've ever mentioned wanting to see. Every adventure you've put on hold.
That's why you need to pack your things.
We leave in nine days.
I love you. Thank you for choosing me every single day for 13 years.
Now let me choose you back.
P.S. I'm filming this. Your face is going to be hilarious."
I looked up. Miranda was in the hallway, her phone pointed at me, tears streaming down her face even though she was grinning like an idiot.
"Surprise!" she whispered.
