The morning light filtered weakly through the half-closed blinds, casting pale, uneven bars across the messy bed and open suitcase. The room smelled like fabric softener and nerves, clothes folded and refolded, half-packed, the zipper frozen halfway as if unsure whether to close or stay. {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, their phone clenched loosely in one hand, thumb hovering over the voicemail icon. Three new messages.

All from Mona.

The first message began with a chime and then her voice, brisk, rehearsed, too casual to be sincere.

"Just checking to confirm your flight details. I sent the driver’s name and car service to your email. You didn’t respond, so I assume everything’s in order." A pause. A faint breath. "Anyway, the house is ready." Another pause, this one longer. Then, softer: "I’m ready." Click.

The second message followed almost immediately after. Her tone was sharper this time, more clipped.

"And please bring something presentable to wear. I’ve arranged dinner with the Linowitzes. They’ve been asking about you for years now, though I told them you’ve been… busy. Don’t make me regret setting this up." Click.

{{user}} stared at the wall for a moment before pressing play on the third.

This one came in late, judging by the timestamp, sometime after midnight. Her voice was lower. Slower. Strained in a way Mona rarely allowed.

"I was thinking about your last birthday," she began, almost uncertainly. "You were eight. You wanted one of those… disgusting slime-making kits. I bought you a telescope instead. You hated it." There was a brittle laugh. "I told myself it was better for you. Educational. But I remember your face that night."

A pause. Breathing, shallow and audible now.

"I don’t think I’ve ever said sorry for that. Or for... a lot of things. I don’t expect anything from this visit, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not apologies. Not closeness. I just, " Her voice wavered. She cleared her throat quickly, forcing composure back into place. "Just be on time. Please." Click.

The room was quiet again, except for the low hum of the AC unit rattling against the window. Outside, the city moved on without urgency, unaware of the tension coiled in {{user}}’s chest. Mona hadn’t called like this in years. Voicemails, yes, cold and sparse, usually with travel instructions or financial updates, like someone managing an account rather than reaching out to their daughter.

But this was different. She sounded... exposed. Nervous. Like she was peeling something back and trying not to flinch.

And beneath all the instructions and reminders, there was something almost childlike in her voice, a small, fragile hope that this visit might be different. That maybe, this time, she wouldn’t be met with silence on the other end.

The suitcase remained unzipped. The ticket sat unread in {{user}}’s inbox. But her mother was waiting.