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“You are?” I hear rustling as she sits up in bed. “I thought you weren’t coming back until after Christmas.”

“My plans changed,” I say softly. “It’s been… a long day. I got back to New York this afternoon.”

“On Christmas Eve? Are you alone?”

I think about Theo sitting under the street lamp.

“Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

She laughs softly. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Yes, I really do.”

“Okay,” my mom says gently. “Start at the beginning.”

I blow out a breath.

“So there’s this man.”

“Ah,” she says immediately. “That kind of beginning.”

Despite everything, my mouth twitches. And she listens carefully while I tell her everything. She doesn’t judge, she doesn’t cluck her tongue, she’s just there, a reassuring presence on the other end of the line. When I get to the end, she hums in sympathy. “Oh Georgia.

“I know,” I say miserably. “It’s a mess. God, I’m a mess.”

“It sounds like two people who care about each other very much made a series of terrible decisions, while surrounded by other people making even worse ones.”

A reluctant laugh escapes me. “That’s surprisingly accurate.”

“And he’s flown halfway across the world to sit outside your building on Christmas Eve?”

I glance at the window again. “Apparently.” Because he still hasn’t moved.

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “that’s either extremely romantic or extremely stupid.”

“Probably both,” I agree, a thrill shooting through me.

“Most apologies are,” she says. “And this feels like the start of a grand one.”

I pick at a loose thread on my pajama sleeve. “Mom, I don’t know what to do. I love him. But loving him feels like stepping straight back into a life where I come second.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Sweetheart,” she says softly, “putting yourself first doesn’t mean never loving someone again.”

My throat tightens.

“It means choosing someone who will stand beside you instead of expecting you to stand behind them,” she tells me.

“And do you think Theo is that person?” I whisper.

“That,” she says gently, “is something only you can know and only he can prove.”

My eyes drift back to the window once more. He’s still there, sitting down. Probably on the verge of hypothermia.

My mom sighs softly. “From where I’m sitting,” she adds, “he seems to be making a pretty good start.”

I wrap my arm around my legs. “So what do I do?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she says.