It was the middle of the night, and Sarah hadn’t yet drifted into sleep. Her mind was on Milos and holding hands on the ferry over the sea, their future an unblighted stretch, and then her mind was on Bea and the bunch of daisies she’d picked Just for you, Mom! at the park when she was five. Sarah sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. Her longing for her daughter was sudden and consuming.

If only Sarah were a person who could stay angry longer. Bea deserved it. Or did she? She was abrasive, her daughter, self-centered, surely, but she did love. She showed her love in odd ways—the vagina painting for Joey, a true oddity. The articles she sent to Sarah ad nauseam about the queen and her wellness regime. And the surprise Bea had been toiling on for months for the wedding. It was going to be magnificent. Sarah dialed her daughter’s cell phone.

Bea answered on the first ring. “Mom?”

“Yes.”

“You’re still my mom?” said Bea, and Sarah could make out the quiet weeping. Sarah was crying herself now, and something in her chest had unclenched. That’s what it was to be a mother. Your child could do a terrible thing, even to you, and still love beat in your heart whether you wanted it to or not. You didn’t get to choose whom you loved in this life. Sarah had learned that lesson long ago, and now she was being reminded of it. Knocked over the head with it, perhaps.

“I’m always your mom,” said Sarah, and found it to ring true. Maybe she’d never fully get over what Bea had done, or maybe she would, but earlier when she’d tried to separate being a mother and being a person—well, it wasn’t possible to do that for long. Both identities were woven like a tapestry, inextricably bound within her, and that was that.

“I’m really sorry.” Bea went off on a fresh spate of tears. “I wish you’d gotten to speak with Milos. He loved you. That was clear.”

Sarah could only say, “I know he did.” And then because she was a mother and her daughter was crying, she whispered, “It will be okay.”

And Sarah surprised herself for a moment by thinking maybe it would be.

Chapter Forty-Four

Joey

Florida
2019

Grant tossed the keys to the valet. He wore citrus-green shorts, a white button-down, and boat shoes—his chosen attire when encountering his three sisters, whom Joey internally referred to as the Lilly Pulitzer Fan Club. As Joey exited the car, Grant’s eyes darted to her feet like a cartoon character with a neck capable of executing a full swivel. “Flip-flops?” He laughed and kissed her cheek.