But I keep thinking about that one Thursday I drove down to the Waffle House myself to bring Emma to see her. Emma was maybe seven. I was still sore about it, so I marched in there with my arms crossed, ready to make a point.

And there was my mama, hair stuck to her forehead, ketchup on her apron, hauling a tray of plates twice her size. She saw Emma and her whole face just lit up. She came over and crouched down right there on that sticky floor and said, “There’s my girl.” Emma showed her a drawing and Mama pinned it to the side of the register like it was a hundred dollar bill.

I stood there with my arms crossed feeling foolish. I said, “Mama, you’re going to work yourself into the ground.” And she wiped her hands on that apron and said, “I’m fine, honey. Go on, get her some pie.” That’s all she’d ever give me. “I’m fine, honey.” Fifteen years of “I’m fine, honey,” and I never once heard what was underneath it.

I should’ve asked. Just once. “Mama, why Thursdays?” Four words. I had fifteen years of chances and I spent every one of them being mad instead.

The envelope’s still sitting on my kitchen table. I read her letter so many times the crease is going soft. Emma’s coming Sunday. I’m going to put that letter in her hand and tell her the truth, all of it, even the ugly part where her grandma loved her quiet and her mama stayed loud and angry the whole time and never knew the difference.

I keep practicing what I’ll say. I haven’t gotten past the first word yet.