Three days after the Whitfield dinner, I was in the studio when my phone rang.
The number was unknown. I almost ignored it. But something in my gut told me to answer.
"Hello?"
"Grace? Is this Grace? It's... it's your mother."
I went still. The fabric in my hands fell to the table. Her voice was raspy, older than I remembered, but familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
"What do you want?"
"I got out of rehab last month." She paused, like she expected me to congratulate her. "I've been clean. I'm trying, Grace. I really am."
I closed my eyes. "Good for you."
"Don't be like that." Her voice cracked. "I know I wasn't there. I know I failed you. But I'm better now. I just want to see you. To explain."
I wanted to hang up. I should have. But my fingers wouldn't move.
"Where are
