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discontent in my mother’s eyes that night, I’d had no idea how deep it went.
    It had been a new beginning for us as mother and son.
    She had come to me, weeks later, distraught and in tears, confessing the many ways she believed she had failed me.
    She told me that as a young woman, she had been blinded by wealth and society, and she had pushed me to do great things because she loved me and wanted the best for me, but had somehow forgotten to teach me to be compassionate and kind along the way. She had told me she’d grown to care nothing about those things, and when I’d sat there and told her about Elizabeth, it had broken her heart. She felt that she’d somehow failed me. I had disagreed. My failure was al my own.
    But most of al , her concern had been with Elizabeth—
    the girl who had given birth to a grandchild Mom would probably never be given the chance to know. Mom had admitted then that she’d been so fond of Elizabeth, though regretful y she’d never shown it. Mom had said that Elizabeth had reminded her too much of the girl she used to be before she’d lost herself to a world that had been so appealing when she’d married into it.
    Through it we’d become desperately close, relying on one another because we were the only person the other had. She was my closest confidant— my only confidant —
    and it was clear to her that I held myself in reproach.
    Honestly, she did too. She wanted to know how I slept at night, knowing I had a child out there somewhere. I told her I didn’t. She begged me to go find them, stil encouraging me to make it right.
    She disagreed with my rationale. She told me that keeping distance would do nothing but cause more pain, not nul ify it. Obviously, the distance caused me pain. Yes, she knew I was to blame, but she insisted that didn’t mean I didn’t deserve a second chance.
    Since my mother had left him, my father had never once mentioned her name. Every conversation had centered on my schooling and, once I’d graduated, the firm.
    Just like today. I finished the short cal with my father and hung up after promising him I would cal him the next day with an update.
    Looking around my office, I wondered where to begin.
    My large mahogany desk sat facing the door, the dark wood gleaming with the sunlight shining in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. On its surface sat only a phone and nameplate, belying the clutter of the rest of the room.
    Stacks of boxes leaned against one wal , and volumes of books sat in front of the matching mahogany bookcases waiting to be organized. Years of case studies needed to be filed, most of them sent from the main office in Virginia.
    I exhaled a weighty breath through my nose, not yet ready for the task ahead of me.
    Instead, I found myself on the waterfront. I wore a light coat, my hands stuffed in the pockets as I walked along the paved trail and kept to the side in order to stay out of the way of the runners and cyclists. The air was cool but not unpleasant for an afternoon in early May.
    Everything felt so foreign.
    I’d been so accustomed to the rush of New York, the surge of the masses, the sense that there was not a moment to spare, but here it felt as if the second hand had been slowed. I faced into the wind and closed my eyes. My hair whipped around my face while the sun warmed it, my senses fil ed with the sound of gul s and the scent of the sea.
    In the calm and peace, I’d never felt so alone.
    Pul ing out my phone, I dialed. I needed to hear the familiar voice; she answered on the second ring.
    “Christian, sweetheart.”
    “Hey, Mom.”
    “How was your trip?”
    I laughed humorlessly. “Tiring.”
    “I can only imagine. You should have taken me up on my offer to help you drive out.”
    “I wish I would have.”
    “So, what do you think of San Diego?”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t real y had the chance to explore yet, but . . . it feels lonely.” I supposed I was always lonely, but being somewhere so unfamiliar