Page 93 of Returned Mail

“You don't.”

“Mom—”

“You know the version of him he chose to put on paper for you.” The sentence lands like a punch. Because I've had that exact thought myself. At three in the morning. When I’m alone in my bed. “You don't know how he treats waiters or how he acts when he's angry.” The knot in my throat grows tighter. “You don't know what his laugh sounds like.”

God.

That one hurts.

Because she's right.

I don't.

And maybe I won’t ever know…

“You don't know if you would even like each other in person.” The truth settles heavily in my chest. I don't know.

I honestly don't know. And yet— “I know he matters to me, and I’m not debating that, not with you.” The words leave before I can stop them.

“Mia.” It sounds like a warning, like a plea, like a mother trying desperately to save her daughter from something she doesn't understand. “You are grieving your breakup.” I physically flinch. Because now we're getting to it. The thing everyone secretly thinks. The thing I fear myself. “This man showed up during the worst period of your life.” She continues, and I grip the phone harder. “He listened to you.” Tears gather in my eyes. “He made you feel less alone.”

I stare at the departure board. I look at all the cities, the countries, at all the flights, at my flight.

“That's not the same thing as love.” The words keep hitting hard because she thinks that's what this is. And maybe part of me fears it too. That I've confused loneliness with connection. That I've built something imaginary.

That I've fallen in love with a stranger.

“I know that.”

“Then don't go. Please don't get on that plane.” My chest aches. Because I understand her. If my future daughter called me with this story, I'd probably say the exact same thing. “You don't owe him this.”

The words hang between us. I don't owe him this; she's right. I don't. George never asked me to come. Never asked me for anything. Never expected this, and knowing him, he would never…Which somehow makes the decision harder.

“I know.”

“So come home.” I look toward my gate. Boarding begins in forty-two minutes.

“I can't.”

A long silence follows. Then my mother's voice softens. Into heartbreak. Into understanding. Into surrender. “Oh, Mia.”

The tears finally fall. “I can't let him be alone.”

My mother doesn't answer right away. Because I think she finally understands. Not the situation. Not George. Me. The daughter she raised. The woman who has always run toward people who are hurting instead of away from them. Eventually, she sighs. A tired, loving sigh. “Then be careful.”

I start crying harder. “I will.”

“And call me when you land.”

“I will.”

“And if something feels wrong, you leave.” A watery laugh escapes me. “Okay.”

“I still think you're crazy.”

I laugh through my tears. “I know.”

“But you've always had a terrible habit of following your heart.”