NIKO.
My mother was laughing too loudly.
She always did that when she was with old friends—her head tilted back, her hand fluttering dramatically, her voice carrying across the room like she wanted everyone to know she was enjoying herself. I sat a little away from her table, pretending to be absorbed in my phone, nodding occasionally when she glanced my way as if to check I was still there.
But my attention wasn’t on her. It hadn’t been all morning.
It was on Alex.
She was seated across the room, near the large windows, the soft glow of the chandelier above casting shadows across her face. She was with a woman I didn’t recognize—someone in her mid-thirties, sharp posture, neutral-colored suit, the kind of person who looked like they lived their life in bullet points and deadlines.
A
