“What is it? Who’s it from?”

“Liz.”

The glass bangs against the side of the tub in my rush to sit up. “My mom?” I ask, knowing exactly who Liz is.

Turning the card to face me, he points at the signature. “Elizabeth Shaw.”

I squint to read it from across the bathroom. “What does it say?”

Reading over it again, he replies, “She’s inviting you to dinner.”

“When? Where?” I set the glass down and grab a towel when I stand.

Harbor’s gaze travels from my knees to my eyes and then returns to the card. Though a mischievous glint appears when he sneaks another look at me. “You’re very distracting.”

I roll my eyes because I can say the same about him, and have, many times. He offers me a hand when I step out of the tub. With the towel wrapped around me, I lean against him and read the card for myself.

“I didn’t even know if she was alive.” I wander into the bedroom to get dressed. “This is a lot to process.”

“There’s no request to reply. She’s telling you where she’ll be and at what time, but it’s up to you what you choose to do with that information.”

“I have until Friday night to decide.”

“Three days.”

“Three days to decide if I want to see the woman who abandoned me or move on with my life.”

Three days to decide if I put a bow on that part of my life by not going.

Three days to get the closure I’ve wanted since she walked out the door.

Three days that will change the rest of my life forever.

Three days to decide . . .

* * *

I look back once more at Harbor.

He mouths, “You got this,” from the car before he pulls away from the restaurant.

I can do this.

It’s no big deal. Just meeting your mother for the first time since she left you.

No biggie at all.

I picked comfort over trying to impress anyone. Wearing dark jeans and a jacket over a tank top, I look down at my penny loafers, suddenly feeling underdressed for this restaurant. Too late now.

I walk up to the woman behind the podium, and say, “Hi, I’m meeting someone here for dinner.”

Without looking at me, the host asks, “Name on the reservation?”

“Elizabeth Shaw.”

She grins, but I don’t sense any sincerity in it. By how busy she is, I won’t take it personally. Leading me through the tables to a back room filled with even more tables, I see Liz before we get close. It would be hard not to recognize an older version of myself.

Is it weird to think she’s pretty? Is that a compliment in disguise for myself? Anxiety has my feelings reeling along with my mind. The host says, “Here you are.”

Liz looks up from her phone and then quickly stands. Looking at me probably how I’m staring at her. Her hair is medium brown in color and falls just below her shoulders. It’s straight, not like mine that has my father’s wave to it. Her eyes match though but hold more gold than green in them. I say, “Hello.”