“I never forgot.”
The woman beside us had apparently had enough.
“This reunion is lovely, but I’m leaving.”
Alaric turned toward her.
“Yes. You are.”
He signaled to the waiter.
The door was unlocked.
The woman grabbed her purse.
But before leaving, she glanced back at Mom.
“I still think people shouldn’t get offended when someone tells them the truth.”
Mom stood.
For years, I had watched her avoid confrontation.
I had watched her pretend cruel comments didn’t bother her.
I had watched her slowly disappear from places she used to enjoy.
But this time, she didn’t shrink.
She looked directly at the woman.
“You don’t know anything about my health.”
The woman scoffed.
“I can see enough.”
“No,” Mom replied calmly. “You can see my body. That isn’t the same thing.”
The room went silent again.
“You don’t know what medications I take. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know what my doctor says. You don’t know anything about my life.”
The woman tried to interrupt.
Mom continued.
“And even if you did know everything about my health, publicly humiliating a stranger wouldn’t make you helpful.”
She paused.
“It would still make you cruel.”
Nobody in the restaurant defended the woman.
She muttered something, turned around, and walked out.
The door closed behind her.
Mom immediately sat down.
Her hands started trembling.
I reached across the table.
“You were incredible.”
She laughed nervously as tears filled her eyes.
“I was terrified.”
“You can be terrified and brave at the same time.”
Alaric pulled out the empty chair beside us.
“May I?”
Mom nodded.
For several moments, the three of us sat quietly.
Then Alaric looked at the unfinished tiramisu.
“That’s all you ordered?”
“It came before dinner.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Mom shrugged.
“I’m sixty-five.”
Alaric laughed.
“That definitely sounds like you.”
I looked around.
“So this really is your restaurant?”
“For twenty-three years.”
Mom slowly studied the room.
“You actually did it.”
“Eventually.”
Then Alaric pointed toward the wall behind us.
“Look.”
We turned.
Several framed photographs hung beneath the warm lights.
One showed a much younger Alaric standing inside a cramped kitchen.
Beside him was a young woman with thick brown hair and a huge smile.
My mother.
I walked closer.
Below the photograph was a small brass plaque.
It read:
FOR MOLLY, WHO TOLD ME I BELONGED IN A KITCHEN BEFORE I BELIEVED IT MYSELF.
Mom stared at it.
“You kept this?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes filled with tears again.
Part 3:
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