“Why now, mom?” I asked softly. “I understand when I was a little girl why you wouldn't tell me. But why did you wait so long?”

She sighed. “Sweetie. Sometimes I thought you were better off only knowing the good things. There's no justice in what happened to him. I didn't want you to carry that sense of unjustness. I wasn't proud of some of the things I did. I was afraid it might paint your father in a bad light. And the truth was it hurt. It still hurts to think about it. And to tell.”

“So Uncle Rory?” Like my father, I only knew of him from pictures. My mother didn't share much about him. I got the sense she didn't like him much. All I knew was that his story also carried what I assumed was bad luck for the Lightly boys. Needless to say I was shocked to learn they were once married. “He killed himself . . . is that because . . .?”

She nodded. “I had heard he cleaned himself up. He got a few months for Barbie's death. And he seemed to be doing well for a while. But um . . . a few months later I called your Aunt Julia to check in and she told me the news. About how he hung himself. He didn't leave a note or anything, but we all knew why.”

“And Stan?”

“Oh, Stan,” she said half-heartedly. “Stan plead guilty. Spared us all the spectacle of a trial. Was sentenced to twenty years. Died of a heart attack towards the end of his sentence.”

“And the twins?”

“I believe they were taken in by Barbie's sister.”

I sensed no relief in her words. None of the misfortune of those who wronged my father could ease the pain of losing him.

“Summer, I guess I decided to tell you now because I want you to understand how much your father meant to me. How much I meant to him. I think sometimes I had to hold back how I felt for myself. And I know it might be too late, but your father was the love of my life. Still is. You are the product of something very special. Every mother loves her child, but you . . . you brought me back to life.”

My mother always smothered me in love. I thought it was because she was making up for the loss of my father, but now I understood it was because I was the human embodiment of their love. Evidence of their story. Something permanent and lasting from a union so fleeting.

“What about Dean?” I asked of my stepfather, the man who stepped in when I was eight and helped raise me. He had died four years prior.

“Oh, of course I loved Dean. He was a good man. A good father to you. His son needed a mother, my daughter needed a father. I respected him. But it was different. He was a widower. We both lost people we would have spent our lives with. And we had an understanding, I think. That we would be partners in this life, but if there is an afterlife, we would let each other be with the ones we had lost.”

I took my mother's right hand, the skin as thin as rice paper, adorned by the apricot-colored gem she had worn for as long as I could remember, and kissed it. “Mom, I love you,” I cried. I didn't know how much time I had left with her. But she was my hero. The strongest woman I knew. I had always thought she was brave, but when I realized what she had gone through to become who she was, that respect grew even more.

“I love you too, sweetie. Your father would be so proud of the woman you have become. He was good with his hands. And you got that from him. He may not have been a surgeon like you, but you definitely didn't get those skills from me,” she chuckled. “And the way you go around the world, fixing those little kids’ mouths . . . that's your father right there. He lives in you.”

I nodded and I pressed her hand to my cheek. “I know, Mom.”

“Not to mention, you're just as handsome as he was,” she let out a throaty cough as she laughed.

“Nice, mama,” I retorted.

“No, you are lovely. It caused me a lot of grief during your teenage years. But you have his kind eyes and his wavy hair, and those legs that go for days. Good genes.”

“You passed down some pretty good ones yourself.” I winked.

“Mmmhmm,” she conceded. “But inside,” she pointed her wrinkly, shaky finger to my chest, “I couldn't have asked for a better daughter.”

“You're the best mom in the world. I try every day to be half the mom you were to me.”

The lines on her face deepened as she smiled. A tear ran through the creases like a labyrinth, traveling down to the pillow beneath her. We sat for a moment in silence. I wished that moment would go still so I wouldn't lose her. And it made me think of how she must have felt in those frantic moments in the parking lot of the motel. How she had to say goodbye in seconds. How she had gained and lost so much in just a few hours. I had a fifty years with her and it wasn't enough.

We didn't know how long she had left. My kids and husband had come to make sure they spent as much time with her as possible. But my children had to go back to college and my husband was busy with work and holding down the home front while I spent every day at the hospital.

“Listen, Summer. There's something I want to ask of you.”

“Of course, mom.”

“Rory and I never finalized our divorce. So when he passed, I got everything. Including the property on the lake.”

“The lake house?”

She nodded. “Last time I was there was when I took you as a baby. I never went back. I could go anywhere in the world but back there. I've had it maintained. Someone watches it for me. But it's going to be yours soon. And I am ready to go back.”

Our home base had always been California, and despite mom's midwestern roots, we had stayed away from her home state. I understood why.

“When you say 'go back' you mean you want to spend the rest of your time there?”

“Yes. It was my favorite place.”

“Whatever you want, mama.”

When we arrived, I was stunned at how large the property was. A beautiful pale yellow house stood tall at the top of a slope that lead to the lake. Several smaller cabins peppered the estate. Down by the docks there was a boathouse. At the top level of the boathouse, there was a circular window, the one that shone on the eve of my mother's wedding to Rory. The one that led her down the road of elation and devastation.

Entering the house was like walking into a perfectly preserved time capsule. Nothing had changed. There was no need to update a place where no one lived. My mother was going back in time. Bobby never aged, and neither did this place; only she was ravaged by the clock.

The nurse wheeled her into the living room. Every room brought one of her stories to my mind so I could only imagine the effect it had on her.

Wandering the living space, I pictured mom and dad dancing in front of the bay windows. Lying on the floor in front of the fireplace. Cooking breakfast on the vintage range.

Once we had settled in, I sent the nurse off to set up in one of the cabins so we could be alone.

“How are you feeling?” I asked mom.

She nodded. “Good.” But I could tell her mind was teeming with thoughts. Memories. Her eyes met something across the room, and I saw what she was peering at: a record player.

I walked over to it. “You brought it back?” I asked, running my finger along its surface.

She shrugged. “After he was gone, I had no need for it. It belonged here.”

“May I?” I asked.

“Please,” she replied.

I knelt down and flipped through the records. Billie Holliday. I paused for a moment. Would it be a way to take her back to those happy moments, or would it be a cruel reminder of what she had lost?

“Go ahead. Play it,” she nudged from her side of the room.

So I did, sliding the record on the pristinely preserved player. Listening for the crackles that instantly took me back to my childhood.