It's a cozy space—desk covered in paperwork, shelves lined with product samples, two comfortable chairs for consultations with clients.
And on the desk, two fresh matcha lattes in our favorite mugs.
My stomach sinks.
She planned this.
"Sit," Mom says gently, settling into one chair and gesturing to the other.
I sit.
Take the offered latte.
Stare at the green foam like it might have answers.
"So," Mom starts, voice carefully casual. "Gunnar seemed tense today."
"He works too hard. All the guys do."
"Mmm. And you seemed tense too."
"Busy day."
"Ingrid." She waits until I look at her. "In case you’ve forgotten, I've known you for twenty-seven years. Longer if you count the time you were cooking in my belly. Iknowwhen something's going on."
"Nothing's going on."
"Really? Because the tension in that massage room was thick enough to cut with a knife."
I take a sip of latte, buying time.
Too hot.
Burns my tongue.
"We're friends," I say finally. "Sometimes friends have... tension."
"What kind of tension?"
"Mom—"
"Because from where I was standing, it looked like the kind of tension that comes from something happening between two people. Something significant."
My throat closes.
She knows.
Of course she knows.
Mothers always know.
"It's complicated," I whisper.
"Most worthwhile things are."
"It's not—" I stop, swallowing hard. "It's not worthwhile. It's a mistake. A huge, terrible mistake that I'm trying to move past."
"Why is it a mistake?"
