She arrived carrying a tin of cookies she said she’d baked herself.

I put water on for tea and asked her to sit at the little table where students worked during my classes.

“I’m glad you came,” I said.

Mom looked around the greenhouse.

“Your father says you’ve done very well for yourself.”

“I have.

I work hard at it.”

She nodded, but I could see her searching for the familiar script in which she complimented me, I assured her she had always supported me, and we pretended the wedding had been one unfortunate misunderstanding.