Three from my sister in Phoenix. Two from Jonathan Mills confirming the house closing. One from my mother.
I listened to Helen’s voicemail first.
“Sophia, it’s Mom. Just checking you made it to Richmond safely. Alice Thompson says her niece’s wedding was completely ruined by your dramatic stunt—her words, not mine. I told her some things matter more than finger sandwiches and champagne toasts. Anyway, drive carefully today. Call when you reach Wilmington.”
I smiled at my mother’s blunt defense of my actions, then dialed her number.
Our conversation was
