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"I've been doing both our jobs."

"That was unnecessary."

"It was a little necessary."

I let it go. "When does the landlord need the answer?"

"Tuesday afternoon."

I stare at the attachments. "And you need me there."

"Yes." One word. No guilt. No pressure. Just the truth.

I look toward the living room. Mom is no longer pretending not to listen. "I'll call you back."

"How soon?"

"Give me an hour."

"All right."

I end the call. For several seconds, I don't move. Then Mom says from the living room, "You should go."

I turn. She's standing in the doorway. "You weren't listening."

"I absolutely was."

"Mom."

"You put me in a house with thin walls and raised a daughter with a loud business partner. What did you expect?"

Despite everything, I smile. Then it disappears. "I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do."

"That is deeply unhelpful."

She comes into the kitchen. "You need to go to New York."

My stomach drops. Mom sees it. "I didn't say stay there."

I look at her. "You have a business, Madison. People depend on you. You don't stop being responsible for something because something else matters too."

"I know."

"Do you?"

I look back at the laptop. The floor plan is open now. I can already see three things I'd change. Of course I can. This restaurant has lived in my head for years. Every table. Every menu. Every terrible Tuesday when we wondered if we'd make payroll. Every Saturday when the dining room was so full I stood in the kitchen doorway and thought, We did this.

I love it. That's the problem. I love something here too.

Mom touches my arm. "Going back doesn't decide anything."

"It feels like it does."

"That's because you're trying to answer a bigger question than the one in front of you."

I meet her eyes. "What question am I supposed to answer?"