I hold up a finger to make a point. “Especially when watching TV.”

She shifts instantly into professorial mode. “When you watch it with a critical eye, you can study people, psychology, and human interaction. More so, we can understand the images that shape our world and perception.”

“Have I mentioned my mother teaches media and culture?” I tease.

“I had no idea,” Leo jokes.

“I can go on and on, and I will. Just giving you fair warning. But, Leo, just call me Tabitha.”

He nods. “I’ll do that . . . Tabitha.”

She smiles, gathers her bag, closes her tab, and gestures to a table. “Come, sit. The host held us this table when Lulu told me you were coming.”

“Thanks for letting me crash your dinner.”

“You’re the kind of dinner crasher I welcome.”

“And what kind is that, Mom?” I take my seat in one of the bright blue chairs at the table.

My mom winks. “Someone who’s entertaining. I can’t abide boring dinner guests. That’s my hard limit.”

“It’s good to have standards,” Leo says dryly.

She drums her short, unpolished fingernails on the table as she looks at Leo. “Tell me everything. How have you been? How is work? How’s life?”

The two of them chat after the waiter drops by to take our drink order, and I listen, enjoying the ease of their interaction, enjoying, too, that Leo thanks the waiter and so does my mom. They dive right into conversation, volleying with a steady cadence. When appetizers arrive, my mom tastes the shrimp and rolls her eyes. “You have to try this.”

I take a bite, and it melts on my tongue. “Fantastic.”

She holds out her fork to Leo. “And you.”

“Delicious.”

Between courses, she returns her focus to Leo. “How is your mom doing? Is she still making the most beautiful arrangements of irises and lilies in all of Philadelphia? When I led a symposium there a few years ago, I stopped by and ordered a bouquet from her to thank the organizers. She looked lovely and well.”

Leo smiles warmly. “She’s great. She mentioned you’d stopped by. She said, and I quote, ‘Lulu’s mom is a total delight, and I can see why you—’” Leo slams the brakes on that word, then takes a sharp right. “‘I can see why Lulu is the way she is.’”

I stare at him quizzically, as if I can will him to say what he intended, but his eyes are impassive.

My mother laughs, sets a hand on my arm, and squeezes. “Lulu is the way she is because she’s an amazing woman.”

“Raised by an amazing woman,” I add, but even as they chat more, my brain keeps snagging on his unfinished sentence—I can see why you . . .

Why he what?

“What is she up to now?” my mother inquires.

“She retired a year ago, along with my dad. I helped them pay off their mortgage, so they don’t have to worry about that.”

My heart warms instantly. “Leo,” I say softly.

“What?”

“That’s so sweet.”

“Your parents must be so proud of you,” my mother chimes in. “That’s a very lovely gift to give them. The gift of no longer worrying.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

“And your two brothers?”

“I saw them a few weekends ago. Took in a Phillies game. Owen works in retail, and Matthew manages a hotel. They’re doing well. Matthew’s wife is expecting.”

My eyes light up. “When is the baby due?”

He squints as if he’s thinking. “About three more months, I think.”

“Lulu has always been good with little kids. At the park she used to play with younger children, helping them down the slides or on the swings.”

Leo smiles like it contains a whole galaxy. “Is that so? You were like a camp counselor at the park.”

“And then I was a camp counselor. I always liked kids. They were easy to get along with.”

My mom pats my shoulder, stage-whispering, “And they always loved her clothes. Especially when she wore purple tutus and pink tiaras along with her cowgirl vests.”

“Mix and match was my jam,” I admit. “Don’t forget I had cowgirl hats to go with everything too.”

“Pink, purple, red, and green cowgirl hats,” my mom adds.

Leo stares at me, grinning. “What other outfits did she have, Tabitha?”

My mom regales Leo with more tales of me as a tot, then as a tween and teen, and he seems to eat it all up. After they crack up over a story about me wearing tiaras to school every single day in third grade, my mom downshifts, taking a drink of her wine. The twinkle in her eyes flickers off, turning dark. “Have you heard from Tripp’s mother lately? Is she still fundraising?”

Leo nods. “We chatted a few months ago. She was starting to organize a 10K, I believe, for an addiction awareness and advocacy group. I actually need to connect with her again, especially since we’ve been playing phone tag lately.”

My mom sighs sympathetically. “Bless her. She’s taken a terrible thing and done her best to make some good of it.”

The mention of her makes my throat hitch. I haven’t seen her since the funeral, and she lives in Manhattan, relocating here after spending most of her life in Virginia. I ought to look her up, but then again, what would I say?

Mom wipes her eyes, her voice wobbly. “I can’t even imagine what she went through.”

“Hell. She went through hell,” I answer quietly, an invisible fist squeezing my heart as an image of Tripp’s mother, grief-stricken, breaking down into piercing sobs at the memorial service, blasts cruelly before me. Her husband comforted her as best he could, but there’s no comfort for that kind of loss. No salve for her wounds.

Later that day, she set a gentle hand on my shoulder, her voice stretched to the edge of sorrow. “Thank you for trying.”

“I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”

A tear threatens to escape, but I keep it at bay.