“Then what’s the problem?” I’d guessed, but I wanted her to tell me.

She dug her phone out of her pocket and flicked through several screens until she pulled up a picture and shoved it at me. Someone had taken a photo of them outside the opera house. My mom was gorgeous, of course: Jory looked like one of those women pilots painted on planes in WWII, all pinup curves and curly red hair.

I didn’t have her height, and though Mom was two inches shy of six feet, that didn’t keep her from wearing heels. She used it as a litmus test—if a man whined about her height, she could toss him into the discard pile. My mom was beautiful in a grease-stained coveralls and work boots. Wearing the gown and heels she had on for the opera? She was a showstopper.

Her date was looking at her like she hung the moon. Without her heels, he would be taller than her, but with them he was an inch shorter. If he cared, it didn’t show up in the picture. Tan skin, warm brown eyes, and a sweet smile—he could stop a few shows himself. Even from the photo I could tell that his suit was tailored to him, which meant he had some money. I gave a low whistle. “Good job, Mom. He could cut glass with those cheekbones. What’s his name?”

“Luis Velasquez.”

I sandwiched her phone between my hands and made my eyes wide. “He practically has my name. It’s a sign. Can I have a new papa? Pleeeaaaasse?”

She snatched her phone back from me. “I have clearly made a mistake telling you about him.”

I laughed. “Mom, I’m joking. He sounds amazing, he’s hot, and you like him. Again I ask, what’s the problem?”

Mom grimaced and took another swig of beer.

“Is it that he’s obviously a fancy man used to fancy things and that’s scaring you off?”

“That’s not it.” She picked more at the label on her beer. “He’s got magic.”

Ah. Now things were getting clearer. My mom’s parents—I didn’t consider them grandparents really, because they had nothing to do with us—were upper-middle class people who had very specific hopes for their only daughter. Since she didn’t have magic herself, they’d wanted her to explore other avenues to bring glory to the family name: either a career they could brag about, or a husband.

When my mom didn’t do those things, they’d basically disowned her.

Someone like Luis would not only bring up all those old feelings of inadequacy from them, but Mom would also instinctually balk at dating someone who met their qualifications.

“So he’s a fancy man used to fancy things, it’s scaring the shit out of you, and hitting all your hot buttons.”

She shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth to stall, giving herself precious seconds to think while she chewed. “Okay, fine. It’s just…he’s educated—he’s got an MBA. He’s funny, kind, and has plans to take me to the ballet. Not because of how it makes him look, but because he actually enjoys going. I watched him during the opera. He loved it.”