It seemed like there was never enough in the foster home. Enough money, enough food, enough love. But at Christmas, my own mom came and snatched me away, a rare visit I hadn’t even known was coming.

The foster mom watched us drive away with folded arms, her brows heavy over her eyes. I tried not to think about what would happen when I had to go back.

In the car, I sat watching her drive. Her eyes on the road, she reached out often to touch my hair, my hand, my dress. I saw tears fall once, but she only glanced at me without explaining, dashing them away with her long, slender fingers.

My own hands were small, my fingers still chubby with childish roundness, and I wondered if they would be like hers, when I grew up. I examined them to keep from staring at her. She was so beautiful and she smelled like something exotic I couldn’t name. It was probably right that I should be in a foster home; I was nothing like her with my fat cheeks, and my hair that refused to be corralled. I shed my own tears there in the car, but I hid them so she wouldn’t see. My tears made me tired so I leaned over and fell asleep with my head on her lap, as she drove into the darkness.

I woke to the sound of her singing, her soft voice mournful as she poured her heart out. She sang of loneliness and regret, the pang of separation so intense, she could taste it. She sang of lying wakeful in the night, wondering how I was and if I missed her too. She sang of the fear that I would forget her. She shuddered with sobs and caressed my shoulder with one hand, the other still firmly on the wheel. I snuggled into her lap and went back to sleep, smiling. My mother loved and wanted me, missed me like I missed her.

Waking again to silence. I sat up and saw her standing outside the car, the golden rays of the sunrise framing her before them. I crept out and slid under her arm and we watched the sun come up together from a horizon frothed with waves.

“Where are we, momma?”

“At the beach, baby.”

“Whose house is this?”

“It’s our house, sweetheart.”

I clutched my hands to my chest. Dare I hope?

“I live here, too?” My voice squeaked out. She laughed as she gathered me in, picking me up like a baby and cradling me against her body. I grabbed onto her, a surge of joy building in my chest as she swung me around.

“You live here too.” She assured me. “Merry Christmas, baby.”