“You’re my daughter.”
“Exactly. I’ve spent decades telling you when you’re being ridiculous.”
She laughed.
That was the mother I wanted to see again.
The restaurant was crowded when we arrived, but it felt welcoming.
There was laughter near the bar.
Plates clinked.
The air smelled like garlic, tomato sauce, and warm bread.
Mom paused at the entrance.
Only for half a second.
But I saw it.
She knew I saw it too.
Then she lifted her chin.
“Well,” she said, “I’m sixty-five. I’m too old to be afraid of pasta.”
I smiled.
“That’s my girl.”
For the first hour, everything went perfectly.
Mom relaxed.
Then she laughed.
Really laughed.
Not the polite little laugh she had perfected over the past few years.
She told me about an old coworker who once accidentally emailed a complaint about their boss directly to the boss.
She stole bread from my plate even though there was an entire basket sitting between us.
Then she did something that genuinely surprised me.
She ordered tiramisu before dinner.
The waiter blinked.
“Before your entrée?”
Mom grinned.
“That’s what birthdays are for.”
I raised my glass.
“Finally, some wisdom.”
When the dessert arrived, she took one bite and closed her eyes.
“Still good?” I asked.
She nodded solemnly.
“Possibly better.”
For a while, I forgot how difficult it had been to convince her to come.
She looked comfortable.
Happy.
Like herself.
Then she leaned back and glanced around the restaurant.
“Maybe I should do this more often.”
Something tightened in my chest.
I didn’t want to react too strongly and make her realize how worried I had been.
So I simply smiled.
