The message

We had barely made it twenty feet into the mall before Mom was already pulling dresses off racks.

"Mom."

"What?"

"We've been here two minutes."

"And?"

"You already have six dresses."

She looked down at the armful of clothes she was carrying.

"I do."

"That's a problem."

"No, it's called being prepared."

I laughed.

"No, it's called being dangerous."

Mom grinned.

"You sound just like your father."

"That should concern both of us."

We wandered through store after store.

Every time I thought we were finished, Mom spotted something else.

A dress.

A pair of shoes.

A purse.

Jewelry.

Apparently, I was being completely redesigned for Saturday night.

At one point, I walked out of the dressing room wearing a navy blue dress.

Mom stared.

Then shook her head.

"No."

"What?"

"No."

"What's wrong with it?"

"You look like you're interviewing for a management position."

I burst out laughing.

"Mom!"

"I'm serious."

"I am a manager."

"Not Saturday."

I shook my head.

"Then what am I?"

She smiled.

"A woman going to dinner at Pier W."

I rolled my eyes and disappeared back into the dressing room.

The next dress received the same reaction.

And the one after that.

And the one after that.

By the fourth store, I was exhausted.

Mom, however, seemed to be gaining energy.

Finally, I stepped out wearing a simple black dress.

Nothing flashy.

Nothing dramatic.

Just elegant.

I looked in the mirror.

Then I looked at Mom.

She wasn't saying anything.

That worried me.

Normally she had an opinion within seconds.

This time she simply smiled.

"Oh."

I looked down.

"What?"

She shook her head.

"That's the one."

I stared at my reflection.

For a moment, I didn't recognize myself.

Not because the dress was extraordinary.

Because I looked happy.

Actually happy.

Mom walked over and adjusted a strand of hair behind my ear.

"There she is."

I looked at her.

"Who?"

"The girl I remember."

The comment hit me harder than it should have.

Because for a split second, I saw her too.

The woman I used to be.

Confident.

Hopeful.

Excited about life.

Somewhere along the way, she had gotten buried beneath responsibilities and disappointments.

But she wasn't completely gone.

Mom nodded toward the mirror.

"Beautiful."

I laughed.

"Stop."

"No."

"You're my mother."

"Exactly."

I smiled.

"You're biased."

"I am."

She laughed.

"But I'm also right."

For the next hour, we finished shopping.

True to his word, Dad paid for everything.

Every dress.

Every pair of shoes.

Every accessory.

Every time I protested, Mom simply reminded me whose credit card she was using.

"Your father specifically told me not to listen to you."

"That sounds like him."

"It does."

As we walked out carrying bags, the sun was beginning to set.

The parking lot glowed orange and gold.

Mom loaded the purchases into the trunk.

Then she leaned against the car.

"So."

I immediately groaned.

"What now?"

"Have you talked to Jack today?"

I froze.

Only for a second.

But she noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her smile grew.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You haven't."

"No."

"You were hoping he would call."

I laughed nervously.

"No."

"Lela."

"No."

"Lela."

"Okay, maybe."

Mom started laughing.

I couldn't help laughing too.

Because the truth was, I had checked my phone more times than I cared to admit.

Not because I was waiting for him.

At least that's what I kept telling myself.

But every time it buzzed, I found myself hoping.

And that realization annoyed me.

A lot.

Mom climbed into the driver's seat.

"I have news for you."

"I don't want news."

"Too bad."

I sighed dramatically.

"What?"

"You like him."

I immediately laughed.

"No."

"You do."

"No."

"You do."

"I don't even know him."

She smiled.

"Exactly."

The drive home was filled with more of the same.

Mom teasing.

Me denying.

Both of us laughing.

By the time she dropped me off at my house, I was exhausted.

But it was a different kind of exhaustion.

Not the heavy exhaustion I had become accustomed to.

This felt lighter.

Hopeful.

As I carried the shopping bags inside, I noticed Chris's car in the driveway.

My stomach tightened.

Immediately.

The mood I'd carried all afternoon shifted.

Not because I was afraid.

Because I knew exactly what was waiting inside.

Distance.

Silence.

The routine.

I walked through the front door and found Chris sitting in the family room watching television.

He barely looked up.

"Hey."

"Hey."

That was it.

No questions.

No curiosity.

No interest in where I'd been.

Or what I'd been doing.

Or why I was carrying shopping bags.

Just "hey."

For some reason, that bothered me.

More than it should have.

Because there had been a time when he would have asked.

A time when he would have noticed.

A time when he cared about the little details.

Now those moments felt like memories from someone else's life.

I carried the bags upstairs.

As I hung the dress in the closet, my phone buzzed.

My heart immediately skipped.

I hated that it did.

Slowly, I picked it up.

One text message.

My stomach flipped.

It was Jack.

"I hope your day went well. Looking forward to tomorrow. Don't let me keep you out too late tonight. Big day tomorrow."

I stared at the screen.

Then read it again.

And again.

A smile slowly appeared before I could stop it.

Not because of anything extraordinary.

It was a simple text.

But it felt thoughtful.

Sweet.

And genuine.

Things I hadn't experienced in a very long time.

For several moments, I simply stood there looking at the message.

Then my phone rang.

Mom.

Of course it was Mom.

The second I answered, she said,

"That smile better be because Jack texted."

I burst out laughing.

"How do you do that?"

"Mother's intuition."

And for the first time since agreeing to dinner, I finally admitted it.

Not to Mom.

Not even to myself completely.

But enough.

Maybe I wasn't just nervous anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, I was actually looking forward to Saturday.