She responds with that knowing expression all moms seem to have. “All those times you tell me that I need to relax and do something fun to unwind, and yet you don’t do it yourself.”

I cross my arms. “That’s different. I’m almost thirty. This is the time to push myself and work hard. You’ve spent a lifetime doing that, Mom. You need the rest more than I do.”

“Everyone needs rest. Everyone needs to have fun.”

“Working is fun for me.”

It’s only a half lie. I love seeing how our food truck business has grown. I love coming up with new recipes and seeing our customers go gaga over them. I love what she and I accomplish every day we work together.

But there’s another part of me. The carefree part that used to spend days off hiking, bar crawling with friends, and napping. I’ve been ignoring that part for the past year and a half. Slowing down wasn’t an option when we had medical bills, a funeral to pay off, and Mom’s savings to replenish.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from admitting all this out loud. Of course it would be nice to indulge in a free day. I could hike one of the trails at Haleakala. Or finally make it to the Pipiwai bamboo forest and see if it’s as stunning in person as it is in every single photo I’ve seen.

She frowns at me, the tan patch of skin between her dark eyebrows barely wrinkling. “Oh, don’t give me that. You make me take days off from work so I can play mahjong with my friends and go to book club.”

Reaching across the counter for her phone, she swipes across the screen, then slides it to me. “Now I’m making you.”

I focus on the image, which is an airline logo. The letters “LHR” don’t sink in at first, but then a second later, it registers. Heathrow Airport. A flight to London.

I squint up at her. “Mom, what in the world is this?”

She pats my shoulder before hopping off the stool. “You’re going to London for a week to visit Auntie Nora and Uncle Nigel.”

“Um, what?”

She runs a hand through my loose waves. “You deserve to go on a vacation. You’ve been working nonstop ever since you moved here to help me after your dad died.”

She rounds the corner of the counter and heads for the sink to load the dishwasher. I trail behind her, stuttering. “But, Mom. England? The money . . . Taking time off from work . . . We can’t afford this.”

I’m still shaking my head, struggling to process the words she’s speaking. How in the world can she just send me out of the country when we have a make-or-break career moment hanging over our heads?