“Sophie,” my mother calls my name from across the restaurant as soon as I walk in. “Yoohoo! Here!” She points to the booth beside her for emphasis.

Guests and servers stop to turn and stare at me. Simply by being in my mother’s presence I am once again an awkward middle schooler.

“Hi, Mom.” We double kiss in greeting and I slide into the booth. “Good to see you.”

She sets the napkin in her lap as she sits opposite from me. “I’d barely call this seeing each other,” she huffs.

So this is going to go well.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take any time off for your visit,” I say. Between my regular shifts and the extra time in the kitchen testing recipe after recipe, perfecting risotto, comparing other dishes to find the best one to serve to Camilla, I have no time to spare. “But I’ll see you tonight when you come for dinner. And we can check out some museums and do some shopping this week before I have to go in to work.”

She reaches over the table to take my hands in hers. “You work too much, Sophie. Like your father.”

In Audrey Brunet’s language, that’s an insult. Dad was always working too much when I was a kid. Now that he’s retired, he golfs too much. When I was little I agreed with my mother; now I don’t know how to gently tell her that Dad might just have new strategies for avoiding his wife.

It would be a pleasure to work a little bit less, but rest is for head chefs who haven’t driven their restaurants into the ground.

“Where is Dad?” I open the menu even though I know what I’m going to get. The only breakfast food I see much point in is eggs Benedict. You can learn a lot about a kitchen by their hollandaise sauce. “I thought he wanted to come.”

She waves my question away with her water glass in her hand, the ice jangling violently and water sloshing over the side onto the white tablecloth. “He wanted to drive because you know your father.”

I nod. He hates to fly.

“But I’m not spending five hours in a car.”

I keep nodding. The horror.

“Maybe in the summer you can entice him down if you promise to go golfing with him.”

More nods.

“Well, thanks for making the trip, Mom.” These are the kinds of compliments my mother needs to be fed to survive. More than just an acknowledgment of gratitude, she needs you to recognize the sacrifice inherent in her actions. “I really appreciate it and I can’t wait to show you around Boston.”

She smiles, squeezing my hands. “It’s my pleasure, dear. It would be easier if you lived closer, of course.” She shakes her head with a sigh, but a server interrupts us before she can say anything more about my poor choice of residence or work schedule.

The server is an Asian woman with a short black bob and red lipstick. Her mouth is the only pop of color in this high-end hotel restaurant, with its white tablecloths and the deep mahogany stain on the furniture. I smile at her and when she smiles back, holding my eye for a breath longer than socially acceptable, I blush and take a sip of water.