Ellsworth considered this. “I do not protect Mr. Ward because he needs it,” he said. “I protect him because he has spent his life protecting others at great cost to himself.”
My throat tightened.
“And you?” he added gently. “You are not here because you are fragile. You are here because you are becoming.”
The words settled over me like a blanket.
I hesitated, then asked, “Could I … could I make a call? No cell service in here.”
“Certainly.”
“My mother is in Ohio,” I said. “I haven’t spoken to her in weeks.”
Ellsworth stood immediately. “I’ll arrange it.”
He left me alone again, but this time the quiet felt different. Less hollow. More intentional.
I stood and moved back to the desk, lifting my camera once more. I took a photograph of the room—not everything. Just the edge of the bed and the jacket on the chair. An image of presence without the person.
The almost.
It felt right.
When Ellsworth returned with the phone, I accepted it with trembling hands. I dialed the number I knew by heart, my pulse loud in my ears.
It rang twice.
“Mila?” my mother’s voice, soft and tentative.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, my voice breaking on the word.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Hi, sweetheart.”
And just like that, the distance collapsed.
I sat on the bed and closed my eyes, letting myself be the daughter again. Letting myself speak without filtering, without minimizing.
“I’m still in Paris,” I said. “I’m doing something I love. And it’s hard. And wonderful. And scary.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m glad,” she said. “I always hoped you’d live bigger than I did.”
Tears spilled freely now, but they felt cleaner somehow. Lighter.
“I miss you,” I whispered.
“I miss you, too.”
I hadn’t expected the conversation to last long. I never did.
Loving my mother had taught me a particular kind of restraint—one shaped by experience rather than intention. I’d learned, early on, to approach her gently. To take her in small doses. To listen for the subtle cues that told me whether today was a day she could be present, or whether she’d drift away mid-sentence, lost in some interior fog I couldn’t reach.
There were days when she was warm and lucid and almost bright, when her voice held curiosity and humor and she asked real questions about my life. And then there were days when she sounded far away, distracted by an invisible weight, responding just enough to be polite but not enough to be known. I learned not to push on those days. Not to ask for more than she couldgive. Not to take the distance personally, even when it felt like a small, private grief.
So, I approached her the way I always did—with low expectations and a careful heart. Prepared to end the conversation early, if I needed to. Prepared to tell myself that loving someone didn’t always mean staying on the line.
But she stayed with me.
She asked about Paris—really asked. About the light. About the work. About whether I was eating enough, sleeping enough, letting myself enjoy it. She laughed softly when I told her about the residency, about the way the city made room for people to be unfinished without apology.
