Michalis flips the switch and we’re plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the glow from the kitchen and those string lights.
Everyone goes quiet.
Mom’s voice, muffled through the wood: “Leo, did you remember to grab the mail?”
“I’ll get it later.”
“You said that yesterday.”
A key in the lock. The deadbolt turning. The door swinging open.
“Surprise!”
The lights blaze on. Forty voices, overlapping, rising in a wave. And Mom’s hand flies to her chest—that small, unconscious gesture, the one I’ve seen a thousand times. Surprise. Delight. Her fingers splayed over her collarbone like she’s trying to hold herself steady.
She’s perfect.
She always is. But tonight, in this light, with her face soft and her eyes wide and her lips parted in that barely-there smile—tonight she’s something else. Something I don’t have words for.
Her dark hair is down, falling past her shoulders in waves that catch the twinkly lights. Not styled, not arranged. Just hers. A lighter brown than Dad’s, but with threads of silver at her temples that she used to dye and now lets shine. Battle scars, she calls them. Evidence of a life well-lived.
Her eyes sweep the room. She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater, soft cashmere, slightly oversized, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Dark jeans. Simple gold hoops in her ears. Ballet flats. She looks like herself. Which is to say, she looks like home.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “You guys.”
Her hand is still pressed to her chest. She turns to Dad, who’s standing behind her with that barely-suppressed grin he gets when he’s pulled something off, and she slaps him—playful, open-palmed, right across the chest.
“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble for me!”
He catches her hand, holds it there against his heart. “Of course we did.”
And then he leans down and kisses her.
Not a peck. Not the quick, perfunctory kiss of long-married people going through motions. Arealkiss. One that makesPhoebe elbow me and whisperget a room, the kind that makes Yiayia nod approvingly from the kitchen doorway.
When they pull apart, Mom’s cheeks are pink.
“Okay,” she says, still breathless. “Okay. So this is—this is a lot.”
Her eyes find me and she opens her arms. I’m across the room before I realize I’ve moved. So are Allie and Michalis. We converge on her like we’re eight and ten and sixteen again, a tangle of limbs and old instincts, and Mom wraps her arms around all three of us like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She’s smaller than me now. When did that happen? She used to tower over me, this elegant, lively woman who somehow knew how to make me feel like I was the most important person in any room. Now I have to bend down to rest my chin on her shoulder.
“You guys,” she murmurs. Her hand finds the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. “You guys.”
She kisses Michalis’s cheek. She kisses Allie’s temple. She presses her lips to my forehead and holds them there for one heartbeat, two.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For this. For everything.”
“We didn’t do anything,” Allie mumbles into her shoulder.
Mom laughs, that surprised, genuine sound. “You absolutely did. This room looks incredible. The food smells amazing. You—” She pulls back, holding Allie’s face in both hands. “—are wearing a crop top in the cold, and I have questions.”
“It’s not that cold, Mom.”
“It’s forty-five degrees.”
“It’s fashion.”
