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“All right,” I whisper. “I'll cover for you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Her driver starts the car again, and we pull back onto the road.

For the first time since my mother's call, I feel something loosen inside me. Nothing has been settled. My parents are still waiting, the future is still uncertain, and an ocean still separates me from the man I can't stop thinking about.

But I am not walking into it alone.

Oma reaches over and pats my knee.

“Now,” she says, “when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

I groan and drop my head against the seat.

“Oh, God. Here we go.”

“Answer the question, Anneliese.”

The moment I walk through the front doors, I know I won’t get upstairs without a confrontation.

Mother is waiting in the sitting room, dressed as if she has somewhere important to be, though I know perfectly well she's arranged her afternoon around my arrival. Father stands near the windows, one hand in his pocket, his attention fixed on the drive.

Both turn when I enter.

“Anneliese.”

“Mother. Father.”

Mother's gaze moves over me, taking inventory. My hair, my clothes, the suitcase being carried in behind me. Whatever she sees, it doesn't please her.

“We need to talk.”

“Yes,” I say. “We do.”

“Then sit down.”

I set my bag beside the stairs. “No. I'm exhausted. I've been traveling for hours, and I haven't slept properly in days. I need two days to sleep, then one day to readjust to being home. After that, we can have our conversation.”

“Three days?” Mother asks incredulously. “You've been gone for ages, Anneliese. You cannot simply return and dictate the terms under which we discuss your behavior.”

“I'm not dictating anything. I'm telling you what I need before we have a productive conversation.”

“What you need?” Her voice sharpens. “Your father and I have spent the past several days trying to understand your decisions. We've had to deal with the consequences, the publicity, the questions⁠—”

I reach up and pull my hair back, gathering it at the nape of my neck. It's a small, familiar movement, something to do with my hands while I keep myself from saying the first thing that comes to mind.

Then I look directly at her.

“You've been tracking my movements, haven't you?”

Mother's expression changes by the smallest degree.

“You found out about Rez. You knew about the video. You knew enough to decide I was throwing my future away and that I wasn't mentally well.” I take a breath. “A mother who can keep tabs on her adult daughter from another continent, who's resourceful enough to find out about a man she's never met, should have been capable of asking one simple question.”

“And what question would that be?”

“Was I okay?”