I close the shop at six, flip the sign, and stand there for approximately forty-five seconds before I realize I cannot be in my own head tonight.

Mom was here. Mom sat at a table and drank coffee and said my wall was a nice color and left, and I've been replaying those twenty-three minutes on a loop ever since, examining every word like an archaeologist with a particularly cryptic shard of pottery. What did she mean when she said "regular"? Was "nice color" actually nice, or was it nice the way she used to say my piano recitals were "nice" before listing seven things I could improve?

I need meatloaf. I need to not cook. I need Milly's.

The walk takes four minutes, which is not enough time to sort out my feelings but is exactly enough time to get cold in March without a heavier coat. The diner glows orange through the windows—that particular shade of warm that only exists in places with vinyl booths and laminated menus and pie that's been sitting under glass since 11 AM and is still somehow perfect.

The bell over Milly's door is lower-pitched than mine. More of a clunk than a ring. I've never noticed that before.

"Booth four," Milly says without looking up from the register. "Meatloaf's hot."

This is how Milly says hello. I've learned not to take it personally.

I slide into booth four—my booth, apparently, though I don't remember claiming it—and the vinyl makes that particular squeaking sound that means I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. The menu's already on the table but I don't need it. I've never needed it. Milly brings what Milly thinks you should have, and Milly is usually right.[^1]

She appears with coffee before I've taken my coat off. Sets it down with a thunk. Milly doesn't do gentle placement. Milly places things the way other people make accusations.

"Meatloaf. Mashed. Extra gravy." It's not a question.

"Yes, please."

She's gone before I finish the second word, which is fine, which is normal, which is the whole point of Milly's. Nobody asks how you're doing. Nobody wants to hear about your day. You sit, you eat, you leave money on the table, and whatever you walked in carrying walks out a little lighter.

The coffee is terrible. I drink it anyway.

The meatloaf arrives in the ceramic chicken dish—Milly's signature, a piece of servingware so aggressively country-kitchen that it circles back around to charming. I eat. The mashed potatoes are good. The gravy is better. The green beans are from a can and I do not care even a little bit because they taste like not having to make decisions.

I'm halfway through the meatloaf when Milly comes back.

And sits down.

Across from me. In the booth. Making eye contact.

My fork stops mid-air. This is not—Milly doesn't—she's never—

"You gonna tell me what happened," Milly says, "or am I gonna have to guess?"

"I—what?"

"You walked in here looking like someone canceled Christmas. Twice." She folds her arms on the table. Her forearms are substantial. She could probably arm-wrestle Todd and win. "I got time. Dinner rush is over. Hank's got the grill."

I set my fork down. Pick it up again. Put it down. Milly watches this entire performance with the patience of someone who has seen every possible human emotion walk through her door and ordered them all to sit in booth four.[^2]

"My mom came to the shop today," I say.

Milly waits.

"She just... showed up. Ordered coffee. Sat at a table. Told me my wall was a nice color." I'm aware that this sounds like nothing. It sounds like a perfectly normal interaction between a mother and daughter, which is exactly the problem. "Then she left."

"Huh," Milly says.

"That's the first time she's been to The Hot Mess. Ever. She's never—we don't—" I stop. Breathe. "It's complicated."

"Family usually is."

She doesn't push. Doesn't ask for details, doesn't offer advice, doesn't tell me how I should feel about it. Just sits there, arms folded, occupying space in my crisis like she belongs there.

"I don't know what it means," I admit. "Her coming. I don't know if it means things are better or if she was just curious or if she's going to pretend it never happened next time I see her."

"Does it have to mean something?"

I blink. "What?"

"She came. She saw your wall. She drank your coffee." Milly shrugs—a motion that involves her whole upper body and communicates about seventeen different things, none of them sentimental. "Maybe that's the whole thing. Maybe it doesn't have to mean more than that yet."

Yet. She said yet.

Something loosens in my chest.

"Pie's on me," Milly says, already sliding out of the booth. "Don't argue. And eat your green beans. You look tired."

She's gone before I can respond, which is probably intentional, and I'm sitting in booth four with cooling meatloaf and terrible coffee and a piece of knowledge I didn't have when I walked in:

People notice. People who aren't my best friend, people who don't have a reason to care, people who serve meatloaf with the emotional affect of a DMV employee—they notice when I'm off. They check. They sit down.

Community snuck up on me while I wasn't looking.

I eat my green beans. All of them.

The pie is cherry. It's perfect.[^3]

[^1]: Milly once brought me a grilled cheese when I ordered a salad. "You don't want a salad," she said. "You want comfort food and permission to eat it." She was correct.

[^2]: I knock over the salt shaker reaching for my water. Milly doesn't acknowledge this. Milly has seen worse.

[^3]: Everything at Milly's is perfect. Don't tell her I said that. She'd be insufferable.