“Yay! She’s here!” Abby says as she pulls me off the cabin’s front porch and into the warmth of the room.
A chorus of delighted squeals answers her, and I can’t help but laugh and smile. “Hi, girls.”
“Mama Long!” The others rise as one inebriated group to give me hugs, and I return all of them warmly. They’re all like my daughters in their own individual ways; I’ve known many of them since they were in preschool with Britanya.
There’s Abby, the ringleader who still looks every bit the former high school cheerleader, with her brown ringlets and honey-colored eyes. Diana, the first-generation Mexican-American daughter of immigrants who’d rebelled rather spectacularly against their strict upbringing, but seemed to be coming back around now that she was facing the realities of adulthood. G
