Dr. Mark, My Mom’s Ex-Husband

7

Sophia

My mother called on a Tuesday night while I was still at the office, staring at floor plans for the third revision of the pediatric wing walkthrough, and I almost let it go to voicemail out of pure exhaustion.

I didn’t. I never do, not with my mom. Old habit, maybe old guilt, the kind that gets baked into you as an only child of a single parent who worked twice as hard as anyone I knew to make sure I never went without.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You’re avoiding me.” She said it lightly, the way she says most things, but there was an edge underneath it that I recognized. Claire Bennett doesn’t do dramatic confrontations. She does quiet observations delivered at exactly the right moment to make you feel seen and slightly caught.

“I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been busy for three and a half weeks, which is roughly how long it’s been since you moved in with Mia and stopped answering half my texts.” A pause. “I heard about Jason. Mia’s mother told me at book club, which means I found out about my daughter’s broken engagement secondhand, from a woman who still thinks I use a flip phone.”

Guilt landed exactly where she meant it to. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to talk about it yet.”

“I understand that.” Her voice softened, dropping the edge. “I do, sweetheart. I just don’t love finding out important things about your life from someone else. That’s all.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“So come to dinner Saturday. Make it up to me.” Not a question, not really, though she phrased it like one. That’s my mother’s way. She asks so gently you don’t notice you’ve already agreed until you’re halfway through saying yes.

“Mom, I don’t know. I’ve got the hospital walkthrough Monday, I’ve got—”

“Sophia.” Just my name, in that particular tone she’s used since I was twelve years old, the one that ends an argument before it’s fully begun. “One dinner. I’ll make the chicken thing you like. You can tell me everything or nothing at all, whatever you need. But I want to see your face and know you’re actually eating something besides whatever Mia’s stocking her fridge with these days.”

I laughed despite myself, because she wasn’t wrong about Mia’s fridge, which currently contained hot sauce, three kinds of wine, and very little else. “Fine. Saturday.”

“Good. Six o’clock.” A pause, and I could practically hear her deciding whether to say the next part. “And wear something nice, would you? Not fancy. Just nice.”

That gave me pause. My mother has never once in my adult life told me what to wear to her own dinner table. “Why does it matter what I wear to your house?”

“It doesn’t matter. I just think you look prettier when you make a little effort, that’s all. You’ve been living in sweatshirts for three weeks, I imagine.”

I let that go, mostly because I was tired and it was easier than pushing, though something about the specificity of it landed strangely, tucked itself into the back of my mind the way small odd things do right before you realize they mattered.

Saturday came faster than I wanted it to. I stood in front of Mia’s closet for longer than I’d admit to anyone, finally settling on a green wrap dress I hadn’t worn since before Jason, back when I still bought clothes for myself instead of for an audience of one. It felt strange putting it on. Strange in a good way, like trying on a version of myself I’d forgotten existed.

Mia looked me over when I came out of the bedroom, raised an eyebrow, and said, “That’s a lot of effort for chicken at your mom’s house.”

“She told me to wear something nice.”

“Did she say why?”

“No.” I checked my reflection one more time in the hallway mirror. “It’s probably nothing. She’s probably just trying to get me to feel like a person again after the whole Jason thing. You know how she is. She worries.”

“Sure,” Mia said, in a tone that suggested she didn’t entirely believe that, though neither of us pushed it further. I grabbed my keys and my bag and headed out before I could second-guess the dress or the whole evening.

My mother’s house looked exactly the way it always had, the small brick place on Linden Street she’d bought on her own after the business collapse years ago, back before I really understood what any of that meant, back when I was still young enough to think our lives had always been steady. The porch light was on. The smell of her chicken hit me the second she opened the door, roasted with rosemary and too much garlic, the smell of every good memory I have from childhood rolled into one dish.

“There she is.” My mom pulled me into a hug tighter than her usual hello, holding on a beat longer than necessary, and I let myself sink into it, because it turns out I’d needed exactly this more than I realized. “You look beautiful. I’m glad you wore the green.”

“You told me to.”

“I did.” She pulled back, studied my face the way mothers do, checking for the things you try to hide. “How are you really doing, sweetheart? Not the version you give Mia. The real one.”

“Getting there,” I said, and it was mostly true. “Work’s been good. Really good, actually. I landed a big project. The pediatric wing at Sullivan Heart Institute.”

Her eyebrows lifted, surprised and pleased. “Sophia, that’s wonderful. That’s exactly the kind of project you’ve always wanted.”

“It is. I’m nervous about it, but it’s good nervous.” I followed her into the kitchen, where the table was already set for what looked like more than two people, three plates instead of the usual two, and I paused in the doorway. “Are we expecting someone?”

My mother didn’t look up from the stove, stirring something with a little more focus than the task strictly required. “Actually, yes. I should have mentioned it on the phone. An old friend of mine is stopping by for dinner tonight. I think you’ll be glad to see him, actually. It’s been a long time.”