I remove my apron and smooth my shirt, but when I glance out the peephole, I pull back, knees weak, heart racing.

It’s a face I haven’t seen since the day I graduated with my master’s in education. The day she ruined by showing up so drunk she stumbled and fell when she tried to leap into the aisle to hug me as I walked by, tripping me and three others. The corner of my friend’s graduation cap poked me just under my eye. It left a scar.

Mom.

My fingers are already flipping through my notebook, searching for an answer to why she is here. I take another peek. She’s different—older, obviously, since that day was, um, well, a long time ago, I think, even if I do remember it like it was yesterday.

“Claire?” Her voice is the same, too, but missing something. “It’s Mom.”

Is that a nervous lilt? I look through the peephole, see that she rubs the back of her neck, shifts her weight. Yeah, nervous. My face hardens with the memory of a different time when she stood outside the door, begging to be heard, wanting to come home.

It was the summer before I left for college. Dad had fixed dinner, setting an extra place at the table that I’d assumed was for Ruth. But the knock that came a moment later was too soft for Ruth, and I nearly cried out when I opened it to find Mom, shorter and smaller than I remembered, and so skinny she looked frail. Her skin, once smooth and flawless, was riddled with shallow lines that tracked around her eyes and forehead. And her hair—her beautiful thick brown waves—pulled into a limp ponytail. Mom? My arms had hung stiffly by my sides, my face a frozen mask. Inside, I remember a storm of emotions battering my heart and chest and lungs like the wind and rain that pummel our coastline.

I want to give you something.

She’d handed me a small green token. It lay in my open palm, but I didn’t look down at it, because I was afraid that if I moved at all, I’d start to cry. And I didn’t want to cry. What is it?

Dad stood behind me, a solid rock sheltering me from the elements, and I was able to breathe a little easier.

It means I’ve been sober for ninety days. I just want you to know that I’m trying, Claire. And—she’d gulped in air—I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough, but I will make it up to you, honey.