That night, when Mother came to say goodnight, Mae told her what Grandma had said about her. As she spoke, Mother’s expression went hard, and her eyes drifted down to the bedsheets and her hand on Mae’s stomach. When Mae finished, she sighed and said, “Mae, do you remember years ago when we had that talk about you being adopted?”
Mae nodded.
“Remember how we said that, no matter what anyone else might say or think, it didn’t make any difference? You’re still my daughter, and we’re still a family.”
Another nod.
“This is like that. I don’t think you’re old enough to understand completely. You’re old enough to know that I’m not like a lot of other woman. But I’m no different from them. And no matter what my differences are, they don’t make me any less of a woman. And they certainly don’t make me any less of a mother to you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Mae said.
Now Mother smiled, but it was small, seemingly constrained. “Good,” she said. “Now, I need to have a talk with your grandma. You get some rest now.” She leaned over and kissed Mae on the forehead, then turned the lamp off. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Mae said.
Mother left and closed the door behind her. Lying in the dark, Mae could hear her arguing with Grandma in the living room, their words indistinct, Grandma’s voice getting louder and Mother’s voice getting softer until Grandma was near screaming and Mother wasn’t really there at all.