I got my mother to the service hallway by the kitchen, where it was quiet and the lights were bright and the smell was coffee instead of champagne, and she finally lowered the napkin and looked at me.
The wine had dried into the collar of her uniform.
We were eight seconds into an evening that would take me ten days to finish living, and I still did not know why that woman had done it, or why she had looked at my mother’s face like she recognized it.
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