I hesitated. Not because I wanted the pastry. Because accepting anything from her still felt like signing something I hadn’t read.
“I’m in the middle of painting,” I said.
“I won’t stay long,” she promised, and then her voice dropped. “Please.”
That one word carried years of expectation. Please, Elena. Be easy. Be the daughter who smooths things over. Be convenient.
I stepped back enough to let her in, not because she’d earned it, but because I didn’t want a scene on my porch. My neighbors were friendly in that quiet way, the kind who waved and kept walking. I wanted to keep it that way.
My mother walked into my living room and sat on the edge of the couch like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to sink into it. She set the bakery bag on my coffee table carefully, like it might explode.
Her eyes darted around. “It’s nice,” she said. “It feels… peaceful.”
“It is,” I said, and I meant it.
She nodded slowly, hands clasped together. “I miss you.”
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You miss the version of me that did what you wanted.”
Her face tightened. “That’s not fair.”
I let out a quiet breath. “What do you want, Mom?”