I closed my computer slowly and walked over to my window and looked out. How did they know about me? I rushed back to the computer and looked at the email again, and there it was. The other address that had been cc’d. I raced downstairs calling out for my mom and found her sitting at the kitchen counter, her computer also in front of her.

“Mom!” I said, out of breath from the stairs.

“I have something for you.” She pushed an envelope across the counter but didn’t look up at me. These were the first words we’d uttered to each other in over two weeks. “Take it,” she urged, tapping her finger against the white marble.

I picked it up and peered inside. “A plane ticket?” I looked at her, and she finally met my eyes.

“Read it,” she stated.

“Okay.” I started reading. “‘Business class, one way, Paris . . .’” I shook my head. “How did you . . . why did you . . . why was your email on the . . . ?”

“I was the one who applied for you.”

“How?”

“It was easy, I just compiled a folder of all the press you received for your art, and emailed it to them.”

“Wait.” I waved the ticket in the air. “I thought you hated my art. I ruined your billboard. You put out a reward. You called the police, I thought . . . why are you doing this?”

She stood up and walked toward me. She almost touched my shoulder, but then pulled away at the last second.

“Some of the things you said to me at the dance”—she looked away as she spoke—“you were right about them. I haven’t been a proper mother to you since the divorce. It’s been very difficult for me, though, not that that’s an excuse, but . . . I always thought your father and I would be together forever. I thought we would grow old together, and enjoy our grandchildren together and go gray and sit in rocking chairs driving you and your brother mad, together, but . . .” She tapered off, her voice shaking a little.