She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Time you don’t have. A party for a hundred with two hours’ notice. To stay late. To come early. To—”
“I’ll say yes if I can,” I say. “I’ll say no if I can’t.”
“You won’t say no,” she says. “Not to him.”
“I will,” I say, and I mean it. “You raised me to.”
She snorts. “I raised you to think you could fix everything if you worked harder.”
“That too,” I say. “It’s come in handy.”
She rubs her forehead the way she does when a headache’s coming on. “You tell no one.”
“I wasn’t planning to send a newsletter.”
“I mean no one,” she says, sharper. “Not your cousins. Not Zia. Not Carmen. Not a soul.” She jabs the counter. “If someone asks, you’re consulting. I don’t care. You’re doing paperwork. You’re at the fish market. You’re anywhere except where you are.”
“Agreed.”
She nods, once. “And you send me your schedule. Every day. I want to know when you leave and when you’re back.”
“I’ll text,” I say.
“And if he ever—if anything feels wrong—”
“I’ll walk,” I say. “You don’t have to finish the sentence.”
Her eyes shine, but she blinks back the tears that threaten. “I mean it, Bibi. I don’t care if it adds years. You walk. You call me, and I’ll… We’ll figure it out.”
I nod. “Okay.”
She presses her knuckles to her mouth, thinking, then drops her hand. “You’re too much like her,” she says. “You get that set in your jaw, and I know I’ve lost.”
“You haven’t lost,” I say. “We’re not competing against each other. We’re on the same team, Mama.”
Silence falls between us again. Mama sighs. “I hate this.”
“Me too.”
“You come to the restaurant early tomorrow,” she says. “We plan this dinner together.”
“I’ll be there.”
We stand there, the two of us with a thousand unsaid things crowding the room. Finally, she picks up my abandoned mug and rinses it like the motion holds her together. She sets it on the rack with more care than a mug needs.
She dries her hands on her skirt and looks around my kitchen like it might answer for me. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” she says, but she doesn’t move yet.
I nod. “Big day tomorrow.”
She comes close and cups my face for half a second, the way she did when I was ten and feverish. Her palms are cool. “Don’t be brave for me,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m being practical.”
She huffs. “Same thing with you.” She reaches for her shoes, slips them on.
At the door, she pauses. “Lock behind me.”
