Mom’s mouth dropped and she reached across the table to put her hand over mine. “Oh no. No, sweet pea. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

She got up and went over to the desk where she kept her mail and business papers and pulled out a manila file folder from its stand. She placed it on the table next to my lunch plate. “Early this year, I got this in the mail. I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It sounded too good to be true.

I opened the folder and quickly read the letter, which was printed on generic letterhead. It was from a charity institution that helped out adult cancer patients who had fallen on hard times because of the disease. It did sound too good to be true—like a “Make a Wish” foundation for adults. Generously, the institution—called “The Golden Shield Group”—had offered to foot half the balance of my mom’s mortgage and fund the other half as an interest-free loan to be paid back over the next twenty years.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, scouring the letter and flipping it over to read the papers beneath it. “This is—”

“Incredible, I know. I didn’t believe it either. But I checked them out online and went to Pohlman’s Law Office here in town and had him work with their attorneys. He assured me it was all legitimate.”

“Damn, Mom. This is better than the freakin’ lottery.”

She smiled. “Yep, see? Here’s the paperwork from my attorney. It gets better, though. One of the entrepreneurs behind the group, finding out about my setup, offered to front me some money as a silent partner. We’ve come up with a joint business plan and profit sharing—”

I took the papers from her. “Holy crap! So this is what you are using to pay for the renovation?”

“It’s almost done. And I’ve already been working with Heath to get the website redesigned and updated. He’s coming up next weekend to take new pictures. Isn’t it exciting?”

I sat back, marveling at how luminous and animated my mother was. She hadn’t been like this for years, since before the cancer. There was color in her cheeks and she had put on some weight and she actually, for the first time since she’d begun chemo, looked healthy.

My mom noticed me staring. Her smile faded. “What?”

I shook my head. “You’re doing awesome, Mom. I’m so glad.” I smiled, happy for her, still trying to ignore that ache at the back of all conscious thought. Trying to erase the image of Adam with his arm around Lindsay’s waist. A sharp pang pierced me whenever I thought of it—which was, it seemed, all the time.

Mom, keen as ever, picked up on it immediately. She collected the papers from the table and filed them again. “Now let’s talk about what’s going on with you.”

I shook my head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

She shot me a curious glance and she rubbed her index finger along her bottom lip like she always did when she was hesitating. “You were dating someone.”

I glanced away, fidgeting in my seat. I’d allow five more minutes of prodding and then I’d excuse myself. “I was. It was nothing. It’s over.” All the truth. Just not the whole truth. But I couldn’t find it in my heart to tell her that so much had changed along the way. That I’d lost something—a vital piece of me that felt like a gaping hole right at the center of my being. And that it might take a while to learn how to fill that up.

“What happened?” she asked in a quiet voice as if she might startle me out of my uncharacteristic forthrightness by speaking any louder.

I shrugged. “I had to study and my jobs. He had to work. There was no time.”

“Do you want to talk about him?”

I leaned forward, rubbing my forehead with my hand. “No. Not really.”

She sat silent for several minutes and I closed my eyes, preparing to make an excuse to go. She surprised me by dropping the subject and reaching for my half-empty plate, standing to take it to the sink.

“Mom—” I stopped her when she would have walked away. She halted, looking at me expectantly. “The Biological Sperm Donor…” I began shakily. “I think I’m ready to find out more about him.”

My mother sank back to the chair across from me, setting the plates down. I studied her for a moment. She was a lovely woman. She had the olive skin and dark coloring of her Greek ancestors and had been quite the stunning woman in her youth—had taken a turn at modeling as a teen. In her early forties, she was still striking, and before the cancer, she’d looked at least a decade younger than her actual age, with hardly a line marring her skin. But that harrowing ordeal had etched lines at her mouth and a few into her forehead.