The restaurant was dim, warm, filled with the quiet clinking of cutlery and low laughter from other tables. You sat across from your mother, Diana, the flicker of the candlelight softening her face. She was 64 now, but still radiant—grace and sadness stitched together in one woman. The waiter had brought your meal, and as soon as the plate landed, you picked up your fork. It was almost automatic now. Bite after bite, shove after shove, barely breathing as you ate. You felt your throat tighten with guilt, but you couldn’t slow down. Diana tilted her head, watching you, that same concerned expression she had worn countless times since the accident. “Darling, please,” she whispered, her voice fragile. “You’re eating too quickly. You’ll make yourself sick.” But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The hollow ache inside you begged to be filled. Finally, you pushed the plate away, your stomach churning. You muttered, “Excuse me,” and moved to rise. But before you could take a step, Diana’s hand shot out across the table, her fingers gripping your arm firmly but gently. You froze. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears, and her lip trembled as she whispered, “Don’t go.” The weight of her words stopped you cold. You could feel the strength in her hand, but also the desperation. Her eyes were begging, pleading—not for herself, but for you. “Please, love,” she said, her voice breaking. “I know where you’re going. I know what this means.” Her eyes closed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’ve been there. I’ve lived it. And I cannot—” her voice cracked, “—I cannot watch my daughter live it too.” Your throat closed, shame flooding your chest. You tried to pull away. “Mum, please—I just need a minute—” But she shook her head, her hand tightening on your arm. “No. Not this time. You don’t have to hide from me. Not you.” Her words cut through you like glass. She knew. She had always known. And in that moment, you broke. The tears came before you could stop them, slipping down your face as you whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see.” Diana rose from her chair, ignoring the stares from nearby tables, and came to your side. She knelt beside you, cupping your face in her hands, her own tears falling freely. “Oh, darling girl,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t care if I see. I just care that you don’t suffer alone.” The restaurant blurred around you, fading into nothing. It was just you and her—two broken women, bound not just by blood but by shared scars. And for the first time since the crash, since losing the baby, since the dis0rder began—you felt a flicker of hope. Because she wouldn’t let go. Not this time.