"Well, if anyone taught me how to pick up and carry on, it was you two." But her mother's hand is, she imagines, soft with that lotion she always had in her purse. Hydrangeas, she was pretty sure.
She doesn't do anything with her hand, but enjoys the feeling of the weight in her own. Holding hands had become a sacred act for Rogue. and just letting her mother hold on to her was... It was important. Somehow.

"I hate to hear that," she says, but it explains why she'd reached out after so long. Wanting to make things right before she went to meet the Jesus she had always loved so much.

She stops cold. "Irene?" She repeats. Of course she knew Irene Adler. She'd loved Irene. She'd spent countless afternoons over there as a kid, doing her best not to cause too much trouble. She remembered the time she'd learned Irene shared her name with a character in a Sherlock Holmes story, and how Irene had smiled and laughed at the coincidence, saying how funny it was. But this changes everything.

"Irene? In a manner of speaking? What d'you mean?" If Irene was her birth mother... she had to find her again. She needed to talk with her. She had so many questions only Irene would be able to answer. "She was my mom?"