Empathy Over Espresso

“So what was my birth like?” Leela asked over the rim of her mug.
Amber sat back into her Starbucks chair, picking up her own coffee to steady her hands. “That’s your first question?”
Leela shrugged, her teenage apathy falling away as she bit her lip. “It seemed like a good place to start.”
“Well, it was pretty traumatic actually –”
“You had already decided you didn’t want me then, right?” The teen interrupted.
The words gutted Amber. They weren’t correct, or, if they were, they didn’t convey the magnitude of her decision.
“I wanted you to have the best life you could have.”
“And that didn’t include you? My birth mother?”
“You’re 18?”
Leela nodded.
“I was 16.”
Leela thought about it for a moment, her own self only two years younger. Those two years had changed so much, she had matured into someone….but she still had so much more growing to do.
“I think I understand.” Leela whispered into her espresso.
And a weight lifted off both of their shoulders.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Delayed Contact.”

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