Voice Memo
Gabby Tate
9 months, 1 week, 3 days after the accident
Today is my ninth Gotcha Day.
I decided not to remind August about it. It’s not like it’s my birthday or a federal holiday or anything, and I guess I just don’t want him to feel bad that he’s not Mom.
I woke up thinking about how she always made this day feel special, though. Every year was a little different, but it always started with the same tradition. First, she’d pull me out of school for the day and make me a huge pancake breakfast with fresh blueberries and a candle sticking in the center of the stack. She’d tell me to think of a happy memory from the previous year before I blew it out.
And then while we ate, she’d tell me the same story about the night she asked August his thoughts about becoming a summer host family through a church program that connect orphaned children with forever families. She was worried August might feel slighted since it was his senior year of high school. She knew that hosting a younger child might change some of the plans they made with him.
But as Mom told it, August turned the conversation around completely and asked her what she knew about the child they’d be hosting. She pulled up the email from the program director at church and showed him my picture on her computer—big cheesy grin, no front teeth, frizzy, out-of-control hair.
Mom said August studied the screen for a whole minute without saying a word. And then, when he finally spoke, the first thing he said was, “What’s keeping us from being her forever family?”
Mom said that was the moment she stopped praying about being my host family and started praying about being my forever family.
I suppose in a way, August chose me even before my parents did. I’ve always—
“Gabby? You awake? I have breakfast on the table for you.”
Oh, hang on.
Okay, I’m back. That was August.
He made me a stack of blueberry pancakes, and he even remembered the candle. Next year’s happy memory won’t be hard to come up with.