Chapter 8 - Not Yet MomThe public expected a perfect reunion.
They did not get one.
Celeste and Nora were not instantly inseparable.
Nora did not move into Celeste's mansion.
She did not begin calling her Mom.
She did not suddenly enjoy photographers asking whether she felt “lucky” to discover that her biological mother was famous.
Some days Nora wanted Celeste close.
Other days she ignored her messages.
One afternoon she exploded.
“You keep acting like we can make memories now and that fixes everything!”
Celeste did not defend herself.
“I know it doesn't.”
“You don't know anything about me.”
“Then teach me.”
“I shouldn't have to!”
“You're right.”
Nora stopped.
Celeste's willingness not to fight confused her.
Therapy began.
Separately first.
Then together.
Their counselor asked Nora what frightened her most.
“That she'll get bored.”
Celeste felt stabbed.
“Why?”
“Because everybody wants the reunion story.”
Nora looked at her.
“What happens when the story isn't interesting anymore?”
Celeste answered quietly:
“I'll still be here.”
“You can't promise that.”
“I can promise to keep choosing it.”
That answer seemed more believable.
Months passed.
Celeste learned Nora hated mushrooms.
Loved astronomy.
Could play guitar badly but enthusiastically.
Had Julia's habit of folding the corners of books despite being raised by a librarian who should have known better.
Nora learned Celeste hated champagne despite being photographed holding it constantly.
Could not cook rice.
Watched terrible crime shows when anxious.
And kept a locked box containing every object she had saved from Nora's birth.
A sonogram.
A tiny knitted hat.
A hospital parking receipt.
Seven pages of a journal written after she was told her daughter had died.
One evening Nora asked to read it.
Celeste hesitated.
Then gave it to her.
Nora read one sentence aloud:
I keep thinking somewhere in the world a baby is crying, and my body is stupid enough to believe she is mine.
Nora stopped.
Celeste looked away.
“I thought grief was making me imagine things.”
Nora closed the journal.
Then unexpectedly leaned against Celeste's shoulder.
They stayed like that.
No cameras.
No speeches.
No miraculous healing.
Just two people allowing sixteen stolen years to exist between them without letting those years determine everything that came next.
At the trial, Nora chose not to testify publicly.
Her recorded deposition was enough.
Celeste supported the decision.
A reporter shouted:
“Doesn't she want justice?”
Celeste stopped.
“Privacy is not the opposite of justice.”
The quote spread everywhere.
But the moment that mattered happened weeks later.
Nora had fallen asleep on Celeste's sofa while watching a movie.
Celeste covered her with a blanket.
Half-asleep, Nora murmured:
“Night, Mom.”
Celeste froze.
Nora's eyes opened.
They stared at one another.
Nora's face reddened.
“I didn't mean—”
Celeste immediately said:
“You don't have to take it back.”
Silence.
Nora swallowed.
“I'm not ready to say it all the time.”
“You never have to.”
Nora nodded.
Then closed her eyes again.
Celeste walked into the kitchen.
Pressed both hands against the counter.
And cried as quietly as possible.
May you like
Not because she had finally been given a title.
Because Nora had given it without being asked.
