Gerald sent a check for $50 on Dylan’s third birthday. No note, just the check. Christmas morning when Dylan was three, just the two of us.
I wrapped his gifts in newspaper because I could not afford wrapping paper. He did not notice. He was three.
He thought the comics page was part of the gift. When Dylan was six, Vanessa called. It was a Tuesday evening.
I was making spaghetti. Dylan was at the table drawing a picture of a dinosaur eating a spaceship. The phone rang and the caller ID showed a Boston area code and I almost did not answer because I thought it was a telemarketer.
Myra, it’s Vanessa. Her voice had changed. deeper, more polished, like she had been taking classes and sounding like an adult. She did not ask about Dylan, not how he was doing in school, not what he liked to eat, not whether he still had colic or had outgrown it years ago.
She did not ask any of those things. She asked about a car, a 2003 Toyota Camry she had left in our parents’ garage 6 years ago. She wanted to know if it was still there.
She needed to sell it. I’m graduating next spring, she said, and I need cash for my apartment deposit. I told her the car was probably still in the garage.
She said she would call Rita to arrange it. Then she said, “Thanks. Bye.” and hung up.
42 seconds. I timed it afterward because I could not believe that was the whole conversation. That evening, Rita called.
Your sister is graduating next spring, top of her class, business and marketing. Do not make things difficult for her. I’m not making anything difficult for anyone, I said.
I’m making spaghetti. Vanessa graduated summa cum laude from Emerson the following May. Rita drove to Boston for the ceremony.
Gerald went too. They had the graduation photo framed and hung in the living room, professionally matted, 18 by 24. Dylan’s first day of school photo was on my refrigerator, held up by a magnet shaped like a ladybug.
It was not in their house at all. When Dylan was 8, two things happened that changed the trajectory of my life. The first, Willow Creek High School offered me a full-time position as a special education aid with a path to coordinator if I completed my master’s degree.
The salary was $43,000 a year. Benefits included. For a single mother who had been living on teaching assistant wages and carefully portioned grocery runs, that number felt like a fortune.
The second Dylan asked me a question while I was washing dishes. Aunt Myra, how come I don’t have a mom and dad like the other kids? My hands stopped moving.
The water kept running. A plate slipped and clinked against the bottom of the sink. He was sitting at the kitchen table behind me.
Homework spread out, pencil in his hand, looking at me with those dark, serious eyes that were already too perceptive for an 8-year-old. I turned off the water, dried my hands, sat down across from him.
“Dylan, I love you more than anything in this world. Your birth mom loves you, too, in her own way. But I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who’s always going to be here.”
He studied my face. 8 years old and already reading people like they were books.
“I know,” he said.
“I just wanted to call you Mom instead of Aunt Myra.”
Is that okay? I had not cried in years. Not when Rita refused to help.
Not when Vanessa called about a car instead of her son. Not when Christmas came and went without a card from anyone. But when an 8-year-old boy asked permission to call me mom, I broke.
He got up from his chair, walked around the table, and hugged me. Small arms, tight grip. He smelled like pencil shavings and grape juice.
“It’s okay, Mom,” he said, the first time.
That night after Dylan went to bed, I sat at the kitchen table for a long time. I thought about calling Rita, about saying, “Your grandson just called me mom.” And it was the best and saddest moment of my life, and I need you to tell me I’m doing okay.
I did not call because I already knew what she would say. She would tell me not to confuse Dylan. She would tell me Vanessa was his real mother. she would tell me I was overstepping.
Instead, I opened the fireproof safe under my bed, took out the legal guardianship papers, read them in the light of my bedside lamp. My name on every line, Myra Lin Summers, legal guardian, Vanessa Marie Summers, signature of biological mother, relinquishing all custodial rights, notarized, stamped, filed with Franklin County. Underneath the papers was the yellow blanket.
I had kept it folded in the safe since Dylan outgrew it at 5. He used to carry it everywhere to the grocery store, to bed, to the bathtub. It was frayed at the corners and missing a quarter of its original stitching.
It smelled like baby shampoo and years. I was still holding it when I heard a small knock on my door. Dylan stood there in his dinosaur pajamas.
Mom, I can’t sleep. Me neither, I said. He climbed into my bed, saw the blanket in my hands, reached for it.
“That’s my baby blanket,” he said.
He had not seen it in 3 years.
“It was mine first,” I said.
“Before it was yours.”
He took it from me, studied the frayed edges, then he folded it carefully, too carefully for an 8-year-old, and placed it back in the safe.
“We should keep it safe,” he said.
“It’s important.”