My mother looked glamorous in her shimmering blue-green dress, but it was not indomitable Malabar who was before me. It was my childhood mother, the woman who used to comfort me and tuck me in at night. I had almost forgotten about her existence. I’d been the grownup in our relationship for so long—the one who advised and consoled and did the holding—that I didn’t remember what it was like to be held by her. But here was my mom, hugging me, the woman whose soft neck I used to burrow into as a toddler, hiding behind the curtain of her auburn hair. For one brief moment, I was the daughter again.
