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I squeeze his hand. "No. But I'm doing it anyway."

The truth is, I never expected Mom to try. After our conversation in Rome I figured that would be it. Radio silence. The relief of finally cutting a cord that had been fraying for twenty-five years.

Instead, she started calling. She asked about my work, about Valentino, about whether I was happy. She remembered details from previous calls. She sent me a photo of a sunset from her hotel in Bangkok with the message thought you'd like this instead of her usual travel shots meant to impress her social media followers.

Small things. Tiny gestures that shouldn't mean so much but somehow do.

"She's been trying," I say, more to myself than to Valentino. "For three months now."

"Doesn't erase twenty-five years of not trying."

His bluntness should sting, but it doesn't. It's one of the things I love about him. He never sugarcoats reality to make me feel better. He just states facts and lets me decide what to do with them.

"I know." I turn to face him, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes scan the street even here in suburban Chicago. Always watching, always ready. "But I think I was always waiting for them to try. Even when I told myself I wasn't."

He studies my face with that intensity that used to unnerve me and now feels like coming home. "What do you need from me in there?"

This. This quiet question that assumes I'm capable of knowing what I need and tells me he'll provide it without making me beg. Six months ago, I would have deflected with humor or insisted I was fine. Now I actually think about his question.

"Just... be you. Don't pretend to be charmed by them if they're being awful. I need to know you see what I see."

His mouth quirks up at one corner. "When have I ever pretended to be charmed by anyone?"

"Fair point." I laugh despite my nerves. "Also, if my dad starts talking about golf or the stock market, you have permission to shut him down."

"Looking forward to it."

The front door opens before we reach it. Mom stands there in a cream cashmere sweater and perfectly pressed slacks, her blonde hair styled in that effortless way that requires two hours and a professional. But her smile is different. Tentative. Like she's not sure it will be welcomed.

"Amanda. You look beautiful." Her eyes move to Valentino, and I watch her take him in. "Mr. Conti. Thank you for coming."

"Mrs. White." He doesn't smile, but his voice is respectful. Formal in that old-world way that makes me want to drag him upstairs and mess up his perfectly knotted tie.

Focus, Amanda.

"Where's Dad?" I ask as we follow her into the foyer.

"His flight was delayed. He'll be here soon." She twists her wedding ring, a gesture I remember from childhood. She only did it when she was nervous. "I made reservations at that new Italian place downtown, but I thought we could have drinks here first. Get acquainted."

I catch Valentino's eye. Get acquainted. Like he's some college boyfriend I brought home for the first time instead of my husband.

"That sounds nice," I say.

We settle in the living room. The formal one that was always off-limits when I was a kid. Mom pours wine from a bottle that probably costs more than most people spend on groceries in a month. Her hands shake slightly as she hands me a glass.

"So," she says, perching on the edge of the sofa like she might need to flee. "Tell me about the wedding."

I glance at Valentino, who's studying the room with the same attention he gives potential threat assessments. Taking note of exits, sight lines, anything that could be used as a weapon. My mother's Waterford crystal collection would make excellent projectiles.

"It was perfect," I say. "Small. Just us and a witness in this tiny church near the Spanish Steps."

"No photographer?" The question slips out before she can stop it, and I see her flinch at her own reaction.

The old me would have bristled. Would have pointed out that she never showed up for anything worth photographing anyway, so why start caring now? But I'm learning to recognize when someone is fighting their own patterns.

"We have a few photos. Chiara took some with my phone." I pull up the pictures, and Mom leans forward to look. Her expression softens as she scrolls through them. Me in my sundress, Valentino in his shirtsleeves, both of us grinning like idiots in front of a priest who barely spoke English.

"You look so happy," she says quietly. "Both of you."