The six-dollar lobby coffee sat between us on the polished marble tabletop.

My mother set down her white porcelain cup without a sound and reached across to pat my sleeve.

“You look so commanding in that uniform, Sarah,” she said.

“The tailored cut suits you.”

I shifted against the vinyl bench seat.

In eight years she had never mentioned my dress uniform without adding something about how political it looked.

“Thank you, Mother,” I said.

“Your father and I were talking about the past on the drive up from Westchester,” she said, smoothing the lapels of her cream blazer.