On the night of her birthday, I picked her up.
She had clearly spent time getting ready.
Dark pants.
A soft blue blouse.
Her favorite silver necklace.
And the earrings my father had given her years earlier.
“You look beautiful.”
She immediately looked down.
“You’re required to say that.”
“I’m absolutely not.”
“You’re my daughter.”
“Exactly. I’ve spent decades telling you when you’re being ridiculous.”
She laughed.
And for a moment, she looked like the mother I remembered.
The restaurant was busy when we arrived, but comfortable.
The smell of garlic, tomatoes, bread, and herbs filled the room.
Mom hesitated briefly at the entrance.
I noticed.
She knew I noticed.
Then she lifted her chin.
“Well,” she said, “I’m sixty-five. I’m too old to be afraid of pasta.”
For the first hour, everything went perfectly.
