“I still like things. I still want to travel. I still get excited about plans. I still want people to think about me sometimes.”

Melissa’s eyes filled with tears.

Mom continued.

“I spent years telling both of you not to worry about me. Maybe I did that too well.”

Melissa wiped beneath one eye.

“I didn’t mean you weren’t worth anything.”

“I know you didn’t.”

Mom’s voice trembled slightly.

“But for one moment yesterday, that’s how it felt.”

Melissa sat down.

And for the first time since Mom opened the drawer, she stopped defending herself.

Her eyes drifted toward the scrapbook.

She picked it up.

Several pages had bent when she grabbed it earlier.

She carefully flattened one with her palm.

It contained a Mother’s Day card Melissa had made when she was seven.

The handwriting was crooked.

She had drawn Mom with purple hair because apparently we had owned only a handful of crayons.

Melissa laughed through her tears.

“You kept this?”

“Of course.”

She turned another page.

A paper flower.

A photograph of the three of us wearing matching pajamas.

A note I had written apologizing for breaking a lamp after blaming the cat.

Then she found a tiny folded card she had made as a teenager.

There was nothing expensive in the scrapbook.

Most of it was paper.

Some of it was barely recognizable anymore.

Mom had saved every piece.

Melissa looked at the pages for a long time.

Then her eyes moved toward the twenty-dollar bill still sticking out of yesterday’s birthday card.

“I understand.”

Mom sat beside her.

Melissa shook her head.

“No. I really understand.”

Then she looked at me.

“I didn’t want you finding those financial records because I knew what you would think.”

“What?”

“That everything I have happened because Mom paid for it.”

“I don’t think that.”

“I thought you would.”

Her voice became quieter.

“Every time Mom helped us, I told myself it was temporary. Then our situation improved and she kept telling me to forget about paying her back.”

She paused.

“After a while…”

“After a while what?”

Melissa looked at Mom.

“I stopped thinking about what helping us cost her.”

Mom reached for her hand.

Melissa started crying.

“That’s horrible.”

“It’s honest,” Mom said.

Melissa shook her head.

“You made receiving help so easy.”

Mom gave a sad smile.

“Maybe that was my mistake.”

“No.”

Melissa squeezed her hand.

“It was mine.”

She looked around Mom’s bedroom.

The older furniture.

The curtains Mom had repaired rather than replace because they were “still perfectly good.”

“I kept hearing you tell us you didn’t need anything,” Melissa said. “Eventually, I started believing you.”

She swallowed.

“Not just about money. About everything.”

Mom squeezed her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Melissa said.

“Not because I gave you twenty dollars.”

She wiped her face.

“I’m sorry because I started believing that since you never asked me for anything, there was nothing you needed from me.”

Mom pulled her into a hug.

I turned away for a moment because suddenly I was crying too.

When I looked back, Melissa had opened the scrapbook again.

Near the beginning was an old photograph of Mom beside a lake.

She looked maybe twenty-five.

Her shoes were in one hand.

Her jeans were rolled above her ankles.

She was laughing.

Melissa touched the photograph.

“Where was this?”

Mom smiled.

“Lake Briar.”

“You used to talk about that place.”

“I still do.”

“I thought you hadn’t been there since we were little.”

“I haven’t.”

Melissa studied her.

“Do you still want to go?”

Mom blinked.

“What?”

“To the lake. Do you still want to go back?”

A slow smile spread across Mom’s face.

“Of course I do.”

Melissa nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

Mom laughed.

“All of us?”

Melissa looked at me.

“If Amanda can tolerate me for a weekend.”

“I’ll think about it.”

She rolled her eyes.

And somehow, for the first time that afternoon, everything felt normal again.

Later, just before we left, I watched Mom return all the financial documents to the drawer.

Then she locked it.

“You’re still keeping records?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

I smiled.

“You really plan to make everything equal?”

She slipped the brass key into her pocket.

“As equal as I possibly can.”

I hugged her.

For years, I had assumed Mom lived modestly because she simply didn’t want much.

Melissa had apparently believed the same thing.

We were both wrong.

Mom wanted plenty.

She wanted trips.

Memories.

Attention.

Things to look forward to.

She had simply spent decades putting her daughters’ needs ahead of her own.

And somewhere along the way, Melissa had mistaken Mom’s generosity for proof that Mom needed nothing in return.

In the end, the twenty-dollar bill was never the real problem.

It was the sentence Melissa used to explain it.

“At her age, she doesn’t need much.”

Because turning seventy didn’t mean Mom needed less love.

Less thought.

Less joy.

Or fewer reasons to look forward to tomorrow.