I found my mother in the kitchen, but she wasn’t the mother who left that morning. The floral apron was gone. In its place, she wore a vintage leather jacket that smelled of woodsmoke and old secrets. Her hair, usually pinned back into a tight, nervous bun, had been released. It stood off her head in a glorious, defiant halo of curls that seemed to drink in the light. "Mom?" I asked, dropping my bag.