At twenty-four, Julian had his father’s sharp jawline but Elena’s quiet, observant eyes. Their relationship had shifted since he graduated and moved back home to help her run the shop. It was no longer just mother and son; they were partners, confidants, and witnesses to each other's lives.
Elena felt a weight lift, one she hadn't realized she was carrying. She reached out and squeezed his hand. "When did you get so wise?"
"Then I’ll be happy I don't have to be your only source of dinner conversation," he joked, though his eyes remained soft. "Seriously. You spent twenty years putting me first. It’s okay to let someone else in now. I’ve got the shop covered tonight. Go to the gallery."
Julian stopped his work and turned. Marcus was a local painter—kind, talented, and clearly smitten with Elena for months. "And?"
The rain lashed against the windows of Elena’s small bookstore, a rhythmic drumming that usually brought her peace. Today, however, it felt like an insistent heartbeat. Across the room, her son, Julian, was meticulously alphabetizing the poetry section.
Elena sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I was actually thinking about the gallery opening tonight. Marcus asked if I’d go."
Elena looked at him, surprised by the maturity in his voice. "You wouldn't mind? The house is small, Julian. If I start seeing someone..."
