“Seat 13,” I said. “I remember.”

We sat down. Uncle Robert, booming and jovial, turned to me immediately.

“Well now, Evelyn! Good to see you. What do you do these days? Still tinkering with those food trucks?”

The table went quiet. Michael looked at his plate. Ashley winced. Mom looked like she wanted to disappear.

“Something like that,” I smiled.

Dinner began. The food was flawless. Robert raved about the wine pairings. He kept asking me questions, trying to be polite, but every question was a landmine for my mother.

“So, Evelyn, your mother said you helped get this reservation back? You must have friends in high places.”

I saw Mom stiffen.

“I do,” I said. “But not in the way you think.”

Michael chuckled. “Come on, Evelyn. Who do you know? A maître d’? A supplier?”

I set my glass down. “I know the owner.”

Mom laughed, a high, nervous sound. “Yes, yes, she knows the owner.”

“No,” I said, my voice projecting clearly to the end of the table. “I am the owner.“

Forks froze. The air left the room.

“You?” Robert asked, incredulous. “You own Bella’s?”