I close my eyes. Of course she remembers me mentioning him. I made the mistake of calling her after that first session, back when he was just an annoying patient and not... whatever he is now.
“He’s fine. Recovery’s on track.”
“Mm-hmm.” She’s using her I-know-you’re-not-telling-me-something voice. “And how areyou?”
“Fine.”
“Victoria.”
“Mom.”
She sighs, the kind of sigh that says she knows I’m full of it. “You sound tired,” she says, gentler now. “Are you sleeping?”
“Enough.”
“Are you eating?”
“I’m literally eating right now.”
“Real food or takeout?”
I look at the pad Thai container. “...Real-adjacent.”
“Tori.”
“It has vegetables in it!”
She laughs, and something in my chest loosens. My mom has a way of making everything feel manageable, even when it’s not. She did it when I was nineteen, lying in a hospital bed, realizing I’d never play competitive soccer again. She did it when I called her sobbing about my hardest breakup. She’s doing it now, even though she doesn’t know what’s wrong.
“Your father wants to know if you’re coming for Easter,” she says. “Danny’s bringing his girlfriend. We’re all very curious about her.”
“Danny has a girlfriend?”
“Apparently. He’s been very secretive about it, which means she’s either wonderful or has a criminal record.”
“Knowing Danny, it could be both.”
She laughs again. “So? Easter?”
“I’ll try, Mom. The season’s crazy right now.”
“I know, honey. I just miss you.” A pause. “You know, your father and I were talking the other day about when you used to play. Remember that game against Duke? When you scored in the last thirty seconds?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah. I remember.”
“You were so happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that happy.” Another pause, more careful this time. “I want you to be that happy again, Tori. Not about soccer—I know that door closed. But about something. Someone.”
“Mom...”
“I’m not pushing. I’m just saying.” Her voice is soft. “You deserve good things. Don’t forget that.”
I think about Zayden. About the kiss. About the way he looked at me this morning when I called it a mistake—like I’d ripped something out of his chest.
“I won’t forget,” I lie.
We talk for another ten minutes about nothing important—Danny’s new apartment, Dad’s golf game, the neighbor’s dog who keeps digging up Mom’s garden. Normal stuff.
When we hang up, I sit in the silence of my apartment and think about what she said.
