“Yes.”
“And you’re coming here to … see him?”
“Yes.”
“Have you already seen him?”
“No.” A thin laugh that didn’t reach her. “Not yet. I haven’t been brave enough.”
My throat tightened.
My mother.
I didn’t have a file drawer for this version of her.
“Why tell me now?” I asked.
“Because,” she said, and her voice softened, “I want you with me.”
I closed my eyes.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because I understood exactly what she was asking.
A buffer. A witness. A shield.
And also—maybe—permission.
“Mom,” I said quietly, “you don’t need me to do this.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But I want you. I want—” Her breath caught. “I want to stop choosing safety just because it’s easier to explain.”
The sentence slid under my ribs and stayed there.
I swallowed.
“When do you land?” I asked, because logistics were safer than feelings.
“Tomorrow at eleven-fifteen,” she said. “I’m staying at The Mills House.”
“Okay,” I said. “Call me when you’re on the ground.”
“I will.” Then, softer: “Lia?”
“Yes.”
“I’m … glad you’re there.”
I ended the call and didn’t move right away.
When I turned back, Cassian had already collected my suitcase from the belt. He stood with it at his side, unhurried, watching me like he was reading the aftermath.
“Your mother,” he said.
“She’s flying in tomorrow,” I replied.
His gaze didn’t change. “To Charleston?”
