“I’m not crying.”
“You’re literally crying into the salad.”
“She’s seasoning it, Gab,” my husband said, deadpan, and she snorted so hard she almost choked.
“I’m not crying.”
I sat down. I looked at the two of them, my whole world in one small dining room, and I let myself feel it. I made it. We made it.
“To our graduate,” Devon said, lifting his glass. “The smartest, funniest, most stubborn person at this table!”
“Second most stubborn,” Gabriella said. “Mom’s still the champion.”
“To my girl,” I said, and my voice cracked. “You are the best thing I have ever done!”
“Mom’s still the champion.”
Gabriella rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
“Oh,” she said, scrolling on her phone. “That weird account followed me again.”
“What weird account?”
“No profile pic. No posts. Just keeps requesting that I befriend it.”
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“Why don’t you block it?”
“I did. The weirdo keeps making new ones.”
“What weird account?”
“Probably some kid from school,” her stepfather said.
“Probably,” Gabriella agreed, reaching for another strawberry.
I told myself the same thing: some bored classmate. But we weren’t entertaining that tonight. Tonight was ours.
I laughed at Devon’s terrible joke about tassels. I let myself exhale, really exhale, for the first time in 18 years.
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And that was when someone knocked on the door.
“Probably some kid from school.”
“I’ll get it,” I said. “Probably Mrs. Anthony wanting to congratulate Gabby again.”
I opened the door with a smile still on my face.
The smile died.
