I’m clasping a rhinestone into my ear when my mom walks past my room wearing something silver and swirling, instead of the loungewear I expect from her at this time of night. Collecting my purse and my two phones, I head downstairs after her, where she’s rolling the kitchen cabinets open and shut.

I find her rummaging around the cabinet where we keep the medicines, dressed in a satin gown with a light, billowy skirt floating gracefully around her legs. Her hair is swept up on top of her head. Her makeup is flawless, making me wish I’d spent just a bit more time touching up my own eye makeup—even if Cullen is my date. My mom looks beautiful in a way I could never replicate.

“What are you doing?”

My mom pulls out a bottle of aspirin and drops it into her purse. When she looks up, I’m amazed by how green her eyes appear.

“I’m going to the gala,” she says.

I figured my mom supported the Save the Parks initiative, but she’s not one for public appearances when they aren’t required.

“Why?”

Her eyes glisten. There’s sadness behind them, or maybe it’s the makeup deceiving me. “To watch over you.”

I fidget with the clasp on my clutch. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do?”

My mom takes a step toward me. “I think you’re going to be strong and brave like you always are. But I don’t trust the mayor or his son.”

“You can’t—”

“You’re my daughter,” she says in a raised voice, talking over me. “And when you decide you’re done with whatever it is they’re making you do tonight, I’ll be there to bring you home.” My mom holds out her hand, which has something grasped inside of it.

When I extend my own hand in response, she drops the inhaler into my palm. She reaches for my face and cups my chin while brushing her thumb against my cheek.

“You look like him.”

I bury a sob that’s threatening to erupt. Please don’t cry. If she cries, I’ll lose the composure I’m fighting to maintain.

“You’re stunning,” she whispers. “Smart, stubborn, strong, and stunning. Like him.” Her hand falls. Her eyes bend. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” I whisper back, trying not to choke on the lump thickening in my throat.

She touches my shoulder and kisses my forehead. “Then I’ll see you in an hour,” she says before disappearing up the stairs.

The doorbell rings, but I can’t move. I consider running upstairs to say goodbye. One last word. A wave. A hug. As I grab my long coat and head for the door, a nagging feeling pulls my heart—not saying goodbye to her is a mistake.