I have almost no memories of my mom, beyond vague impressions and half-obscured dreams. But as Anjali Santra squeezes the life out of me, I get a sudden, razor-sharp picture of the blonde woman from my picture kneeling down and holding out her arms. Every time I staggered into them, she’d envelop me completely in this soft, warm squeeze that smelled like her and made me feel safe. Even though this woman can barely reach around me, I get that same protected, wrapped-up feeling, like someone’s looking out for me.
