My mother nods.
“Smart.”
No judgment.
No social-pressure nonsense.
No rich-people expectation that she play along with some performance of adulthood she doesn’t owe anybody.
I love them a little for that in the moment.
I love Stella more for not wavering.
I order water too, because I’m not about to sit there drinking while she stays sharp, and because we still have a flight and Monday morning waiting for both of us like a punishment.
We settle into a curved velvet booth with a view of the sea.
For the first few minutes, I mostly watch.
Stella in rooms like this has always fascinated me.
Not because she transforms. She doesn’t try to shrink. Doesn’t overcompensate.
Tall and steady and beautiful in cream and gold and athlete composure, answering my mother’s questions about Stanford and coursework and the ugly logistics of travel schedules with the kind of clean intelligence people either respect immediately or fear a little.
My father asks about volleyball first, which surprises no one.
“What’s your recovery window after a playoff match?”
Stella answers without missing a beat.
“Depends on how ugly the match was. If we go four hard sets, I’ll feel it for forty-eight hours. If we go five, I start bargaining with God.”
That gets another laugh out of him.
“And your degree?”
“International business.”
My mother lifts a brow.
“Plan on working for your father?”
“Doubtful. I want to make my own waves.”
Stella says it like she hasn’t fully decided which mountain she wants to conquer next, only that there will be one.
My mother studies her for a second.
“Admirable. I’d expect nothing less.”
That lands.
I see it land.
Not because Stella’s hungry for approval.
Because my mother is not generous with compliments she doesn’t mean.
