“How are you?” I asked carefully.
A small laugh—nervous, honest. “I’m … I’m okay. I wanted to tell you something before I lose my nerve.”
My stomach tightened. “Okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said. “About Paris. About you just … going. By yourself. Learning a new language, living in a different country, choosing to grow even when it’s uncomfortable.”
I swallowed. Connor had stopped beside me, his hand resting lightly at my waist, listening without listening. Present.
My mother continued, voice a little shaky. “You were so brave. I didn’t say that when you left. I didn’t know how to. I think part of me was jealous. Not of Paris—of the courage. The willingness to change.”
I went still.
“And it … it did something to me,” she said. “I realized I can’t keep making you carry the weight of my absence.”
My eyes burned.
“So,” she said, and I heard her inhale like she was stepping onto a ledge, “I started seeing a therapist.”
For a second, the world tilted.
“You did?” My voice cracked.
“Yes,” she said, and there was a strange, fragile pride in it. “I’ve gone three times. I didn’t cancel. I didn’t make an excuse. I … I went.”
A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it.
“I’m proud of you,” I whispered.
“I’m proud of you,” she said back, and her voice broke on the words. “You inspired me, sweetheart.”
My chest ached so hard it felt like grief and relief had tangled together.
“I had a show tonight,” I said softly. “My photographs.”
“I know,” she said. “You posted a picture. I … I stared at it for a long time.”
The idea of my mother looking at my work, really looking, made my breath hitch.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “For how I’ve been. For the way you’ve had to become your own mother sometimes. I’m working on it. I’m not cured or anything, but I’m working.”
I closed my eyes.
Connor’s hand slid up my back, steadying me.
“I don’t need perfect,” I whispered. “I just … I need you.”
“I’m trying,” she said.
We stayed on the phone a few minutes longer—small details, fragile bridges. Nothing dramatic.
But when I hung up, I stood there for a moment, staring at the wall like I could see my own past projected onto it.
Connor’s voice was quiet. “That was your mom.”
I nodded, wiping my cheek. “She … started seeing a therapist.”
His brows lifted slightly.
