I didn't go back to the office.
Instead I drove to my mother's favorite restaurant. Stary Dom. Old Warsaw. Wooden beams. Candlelight. The kind of place she used to take me for birthdays when money was tight.
I'd reserved the private room.
She arrived at 7:00 p.m. Wearing the navy dress I'd bought her last month. The one she said was "too fancy."
She looked beautiful.
And terrified.
I stood when she entered.
Kissed her cheek.
"Mama."
"Alex."
We sat.
Waiter poured water. Left menus. Disappeared.
She didn't open hers.
"I saw the news," she said. "Thorn Publishing. Inkwell Press. They're saying you bought it. For real."
I nodded.
"It's true."
She looked down at her hands.
"How much?"
"Enough that you never have to worry again."
She laughed. Small, broken.
"I'm not worried about money. I'm worried about you."
I reached across the table. Took her hand.
"I'm fine."
"You're not," she said. "You're different. Harder. You look at me like… like I'm something to manage."
