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“Freya…” she whispers before reaching out to place her soft, warm hands on mine. “Is that what you were so afraid to tell me?”

“Aren’t you mad?” There’s a quiver in my voice and moisture in my eyes.

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because…this isn’t the life you had envisioned for me. I know Nani wants me to find a good man to marry.”

“You found two,” she says with a laugh, and as her eyes crinkle, I see the tears in them.

“You know what I mean,” I reply with a chuckle.

“I do know what you mean, Freya. Mothers will always want things for their daughters. And you know that all I want for you is to be happy. To be the best version of yourself—and look at you. You’re opening a restaurant in Paris, France. How could you possibly think I’d be disappointed in you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, and tears stream down my face. Seeing my emotion, she gathers me up in her arms and holds me to her chest as I cry. Feeling my mother’s touch is more comforting than I remember. Everything from the way she smells to the way she pats my back is familiar and makes me so homesick I could jump on a plane right now.

“Thank you, Maa,” I whisper. Once my tears are spent, I sit upright and wipe them away.

Pulling back, she softly touches my face. “My daughter, you are so brave, and I have loved watching you grow and become your own person. You are a beautiful culmination of everything you have touched from India to California and now Paris. I taste that in your food, and now I see that in your heart. I can’t pretend to understand it, and there are a lot of things I don’t want to know,” she says, making me laugh as I reach for a tissue on the nightstand. “But it makes me proud of you. You are so strong, Freya. Do not live your life by others’ expectations.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat as I stare at my mother. How did I never realize how open-minded and fearless she was? I feel like a fool for not seeing that my mom is her own person. She lives a full, active life outside of being the person who raised me. She has ideas and beliefs that I probably never truly understood until now.

Somehow, this makes me love her that much more.

Then, with a laugh, she adds, “Don’t tell Nani I said that.”

We both laugh together as she scoots to the head of the bed to sit next to me.

“What do you say we put on a Julia Roberts rom-com and order in?”

“Sounds perfect,” I reply as I rest my head on her shoulder. As my mom finds a movie on Netflix, settling onNotting Hill—our favorite—I think about Julian and Archer.

I really hope I didn’t mess it up. But if my mom was so accepting of our relationship, what was my hang-up? Was I really so afraid she’d be mad, or was the issue more with me?

Was I the one hesitant to accept the love we have for each other? Whatever this emotion is, it feels the same as the way I felt about the restaurant.

Undeserving. Not worthy. An impostor.

But those are just the cruel voices in my head, lying to me. Idodeserve the restaurant. I amnotan impostor.

And I am worthy of love.

“Maa,” I mutter as I sit up straight on the bed just as she hits Play. “Can I get a rain check? I need to go do something.”

“I saw this coming,” she replies casually. “Go, but make that nice driver take you. I don’t want you on the streets alone at night.”

I jump from the bed and dash to the door. Then I spin around and run to give her another hug. “You’re the best. And I promise we’ll have a Julia Roberts marathon one night while you’re here.”

“I know we will, sweetie,” she says into our embrace. “Now go. It’s getting late.”

“Thank you,” I reply before rushing to the door. Tearing it open, I run toward the elevator, looking down at my phone and pulling up Amelia’s contact. I need her to send that driver for me.

But even before I can hit the button for the elevator, it opens with a ding. Glancing up, I make eye contact with Julian. He looks flustered, and my heart practically leaps out of my chest.

I don’t think. I just act. Throwing myself at him, I wrap myarms around his neck and squeeze him tight. The relief I feel when he hugs me back is visceral. My legs grow weak, but he holds me up, burying his perfect face in my neck.

As I pull away, I stare into his eyes, currently soft with adoration. “I’m so sorry. I was such an idiot.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he replies. “I should have fought for you.”