Please, please forgive me.” Kate squeezed my hand weakly. A tear slipped down her temple and disappeared into her hairline. “You’re here,” she smiled, a genuine, beautiful smile that I didn’t deserve. “That’s all that matters. You’re here now.” They took her into surgery ten minutes later.

As I write this, Joan and I are sitting side by side in the waiting room. We’ve been drinking terrible machine coffee, and Joan has been telling me all the stories about Kate’s life that my sister didn’t know. I am learning about my daughter’s favorite movies, her promotion at work, the way she snores when she’s overly tired.

I don’t know what happens next. The doctors say the next few hours are critical. I am praying to a God I thought I understood back in 1989, asking for just one more chance. But no matter what happens, the thirty-six years of silence are over.

I finally took off that heavy, cold coat. I am just a mother, sitting with my daughter’s wife, waiting for our girl to wake up.