Jane
The phone felt heavy in my hands. Months had passed since I’d last spoken to Mom, and the guilt gnawed at my chest. I’d been so consumed with training, with proving myself, that I’d let our relationship slip through my fingers.
My thumb hovered over her contact. What if she was angry? What if she’d given up on me?
Taking a shaky breath, I pressed the call.
“Pick up, Mom,” I whispered to myself.
On the third ring, her familiar voice filled the silence. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.” The words came out smaller. “How are you?”
“Jane! Oh, my darling daughter.” The warmth in her voice nearly broke me. “I’m fine, sweetheart. How are you doing? I’ve been so worried.”
I could picture her now—probably sitting in her favorite chair by the window, the one where she used to read me stories. Despite
