My throat tightened. “Okay,” I said, voice thick. “Then we’ll keep choosing each other.”
My mother entered behind Clare, hesitant, like she didn’t know whether she was allowed in this room. She looked at me standing there calm, not staged, not performing, and something on her face shifted.
“Oh,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You look… like yourself.”
“I am,” I said.
My mother’s eyes filled. She walked closer slowly. “I never understood,” she said, voice shaking, “that I was trying to turn you into a picture instead of loving you as a person.”
I watched her carefully. “Do you understand now?” I asked.
She nodded, tears slipping. “I’m trying,” she said. “And today… I just want you to be happy.”
I took a breath, then reached for her hand. “Then be with me,” I said. “Not in front of me. Not behind me. With me.”
My mother squeezed my hand like it was the first real thing she’d held in years.
A staff member poked her head in. “Sophia,” she said softly, “we’re ready when you are.”
Clare stepped closer and linked her arm through mine. “I’m walking with you,” she said.
“Good,” I replied, smiling through the tightness in my chest. “I want you there.”