“This is a new author. She was so excited to have her book published that she didn’t care only six people came to her event. She said you can’t control what happens to your book once it’s published but she loved writing it, and loved that other people—no matter how few—were reading it.”

My mom doesn’t say anything, but she hasn’t returned to her shows, either.

I keep scrolling back, trying to find something to interest her, but it’s mostly a lot of people excited about a lot of books—until I stop at the first photo.

She’s of great interest to me.

Jenna’s head is bent. She’s looking at the CCBF schedule, her mouth quirked in concentration and mild amusement at my off-camera excitement. Her hair slides around the curve of her cheek, coming to rest in a small tangle of curls under her chin.

She’s beautiful. It makes my heart stop.

“Jenna,” I tell my mother thickly. “Before…”

I stop, not letting the tears tumble out with my words.

Mom gently takes the camera from my hands. If she was anyone else’s mother, she would hug me, but she only clicks through the photos, hitting the little arrow to leave Jenna behind.

“I watch a show on channel nine,” she says. “It’s called The Talent Seekers. Have you heard of it? Anyway, they have an episode on photography. I’ve seen it twice.”

Click. Click.

“These are good, Ames. Really good.”

She angles the viewer to show me a photo she’s settled on, lightly tracing a chipped nail along the image of a customer leaning against the wall, her head thrown back in laughter at something an author said.

I like this photo, too. Her eyes are closed, but painted above her head, on the wall behind her, are the ever-watching eyes of Dr. Eckleburg from The Great Gatsby. If I were to call it anything, it’d be Dreaming with Your Eyes Shut.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell Mom. “It’s not something I can turn into a career. I wouldn’t even know how to go about it.”

Mom clicks through a few more thumbnails and says, “I think you just have to do it, kid. And keep doing it.” She hands the camera back to me. “The bookshop isn’t a bad place to start.”

This is all very, very abnormal.

“But I have plans,” I say. “The Williamses … they want me to go to college for something different, something safer.”

I want her to tell me I’m making the right choice. Or even the wrong choice. But because my mother is my mother and not anyone else, she has reached the end of her bandwidth.

“Suit yourself,” she says, rising from the bed.