I stiffened. There were so many things I disagreed with my mother about, especially her choice to do nothing on her own beyond staying home to raise me, even when I was in high school. Her life revolved around her family, and when that family was gone, she’d been left alone. I didn’t want that for myself. I identified so much better with my father—who was driven by ambition to succeed and work he was passionate about. His identity was more than another person to love. When he came home, he brought a bigger-than-life joy to the house, and even if I only had him for an hour, that hour was pure magic. He played hard and talked about important subjects and made me feel special. He’d take me on car rides for ice cream alone, and we’d discuss any random topic in full detail while he listened raptly and gave me advice that was always spot on. And my mother?

She was the one left behind to deal with the boring day-to-day stuff. The one I argued with and blamed when something went wrong. The one faithfully sitting in the darkened audience alone, to watch me, even though I craved my father’s presence. But I reasoned he was doing bigger and better things and that his absence was actually a sacrifice. Mom had no excuses—her entire existence revolved around me.

Had I punished her for such a choice?

She kept speaking as my mind raced in circles. “Allegra pushes you away because she wants more time with you but is unable to express it. It’s easier with me. I’m her grandmother.”

“You were the one to help raise her. She loves you.”

“And she loves you. Mother-daughter relationships are complicated, but this is an important time in her life. She’s looking for you to support her even if you don’t agree. Or at least listen.”

“I try.”

“Try harder.”

I let out a breath and paced faster. “Like being a chef? Did you put that idea in her mind?”

“No, but she loves cooking and I think it’s great she’s passionate about something.”

“She has straight As and she’s bound to get a scholarship and do something important with her life. I don’t want her cooking food for people.”

A tiny laugh left her lips. “Who cares, if that’s what makes her happy? The CIA only accepts top-rated students. That’s where she’s thinking of going.”

I stopped in my tracks. “She told you that?”

“Yes. She also told me she’s frustrated about not having a father and that you dodge the subject when she tries to bring it up.”

Hurt shattered through me. “That’s not true,” I practically whispered. “She asked me a bunch of questions when she was younger, and I explained everything.”