I was halfway through painting the guest room—my would-be office—when the doorbell rang. I’d been in old sweatpants, hair clipped up, speckled with pale gray paint that looked like dust. The kind of look you don’t wear around family unless you want commentary.
I opened the door and there she was, holding a paper bag from a bakery I’d never mentioned liking.
“Elena,” she said softly, like my name was a delicate thing. “I was in the area.”
It was a lie. My new house wasn’t “in the area” of anything she did. She’d driven forty minutes at least. Which meant she’d gotten my address from my father, or from some relative who still thought information was family property.
The bakery bag smelled like cinnamon and warm sugar. It was a smart tactic. Comfort disguised as kindness.
I didn’t step aside. “Mom.”
Her eyes moved past me into my entryway, taking in the newness, the clean walls, the absence of my old apartment’s clutter. Her expression flickered with something that looked like pride and grief fighting in the same breath.
“You bought a place,” she said again, as if the words might soften if she repeated them.
“Yes,” I replied.
She held the bag out. “I brought you breakfast.”