Healing, I had learned, was not the same as never being afraid again.

It was knowing what to do when fear returned.

PART 23

On the second anniversary of my mother’s death, I took a day away from both cafés and visited the cemetery with fresh flowers.

I brought a little paper cup of coffee and sat on the bench beneath the maple tree.

“I’ve been busy, Mom,” I said aloud.

It felt silly at first.

Then I found myself telling her everything: the café opening, the settlement, the friends who had sat with me through long nights, the day I finally put an emergency fund aside.