I reached for my glass, just as the waiter arrived.
“Ma’am, your porterhouse,” he said, setting the plate in front of her. “And your steak, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Enjoy.” The waiter smiled before retreating.
We adjusted our plates, repositioned napkins—filling the silence with ritual.
Then she spoke again, softer this time. “Sebastian called a couple nights ago. He says he’s clean again.”
The knife paused mid-slice, pressure digging into the char line. “That’s good,” I managed.
She smiled faintly. “He sounded clean. It’s been a while since I heard him like that.” Her attention fell to her plate. “He asked about you.”
A muscle ticked in my jaw. “Really?”
“I told him you were doing well—and reminded him to call you sometime.”
“Does he have a number now?”
She shook her head. “Collect call. Probably from a payphone.”
I tried to remember the last phone booth I’d seen. Came up empty. “Next time he calls, let me know. I’ll try to catch him.”
“I will,” she said, taking a sip of wine.
After that, the conversation lightened. Lavender that refused to bloom. A neighbor she swore was stealing her mail. The easy rhythm of her stories carried us through dessert, her laughter filling the booth with warmth.
When the check came, I pulled out a small velvet box and slid it across the table. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
Her face lit up as she opened it. “Oh, you didn’t have to,” she lied, fingers brushing the silver brooch inlaid with sapphires.
“It goes with that navy blouse you love—the one with the buttons you hate.”
She laughed, gentle and delighted. “You’re the sweetest thing.”
By the time we stood, the night had mellowed into tenderness. Four to-go boxes balanced in my arms—her leftovers, her cake, my replacement for last night’s disaster of a tiramisu.
The drive home was silent. By the time we reached her house, her blinks had grown slower.
I carried the food inside, packed it into the fridge, and turned to find her already settled in her recliner—slippers on, remote in hand.
I bent and kissed her forehead. “Happy birthday, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart. Drive safe.”
The door clicked shut behind me, sealing in warmth. Outside, the porch light hummed against the night.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then I checked my phone—the last time I’d check, I lied to myself.
Her name glowed on the screen like a prayer answered.
Or a sentence delivered.
My body froze—but my heart didn’t. It pounded harder with every second.
