I looked toward the photographer across the ballroom.
“Only if no one is being arranged by importance.”
Mia laughed softly.
“Deal.”
The four of us stood together near a plain wall after dinner. No stage. No sponsors. No general crossing the room.
The photographer lifted the camera.
Mother reached for my hand instead of moving me away from Mia.
The flash went off.
A week later, she mailed me a copy.
On the back she had written one sentence.
All my daughters belong in the picture.
She had written daughters, plural, even though there were only two of us.
I called and asked if it was a mistake.
She laughed through tears.
“No. I wrote it twice before I got it right. The first time I wrote ‘my girls’ because that is how I still see you. Then I realized you are both grown women, and I need to stop deciding who you are based on the roles I gave you.”
I put the photograph on my desk.
Not beside the medal.
Not under a flag.
Beside an ordinary coffee mug, where I could see it during ordinary days.
That was where it belonged.
