My long black hair fell in polished waves over my shoulders.
The stylist insisted on understated gold jewelry.
My mother said I looked like royalty.
My seventeen-year-old daughter, Zora, said I looked like somebody about to announce the winner of an international music award.
That was good enough for me.
I had been a single mother for most of Zora's life.
Her father and I separated when she was six.
There was no terrible scandal behind the divorce.
We were simply two people who had grown apart while trying to build careers that consumed too much of our attention.
He remained involved in her life.
I respected that.
But Zora lived primarily with me, and the difficult part of my professional responsibilities wasn't the long hours.
It was how many ordinary moments they stole from her.
School concerts.
Parent meetings.
Birthday dinners.
The conversations that happened only when a teenager finally felt ready to talk.
I tried to be present.
Sometimes I succeeded.
Often, I didn't.
Zora had learned not to be impressed by titles.
When people discovered what I did for a living, they sometimes looked at her with excitement.
“Your mother works for the NSA?”
She would shrug.
“Yeah. But she still forgets to buy orange juice.”
That was my daughter.
Brilliant.
Funny.
Impatient with excuses.
And entirely capable of reminding me that being responsible for important work didn't make me the center of the universe.
On the evening of the gala, she'd called while I was having my hair finished.
“Mom?”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Are you going to be home tomorrow?”
I looked toward the schedule on my phone.
“I expect so.”
She sighed.
“That's not what I asked.”
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow was her final rehearsal before a school music performance.
She had been practicing for weeks.
“I'll be there.”
There was a pause.
Then she asked, “Really?”
I felt a familiar stab of guilt.
“Yes, Zora. Really.”
“Okay.”
I heard hesitation in her voice.
Then she added, “You look nice in the picture Grandma sent.”
I smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Orange is definitely your color.”
I laughed.
Then she said quietly, “Just don't forget tomorrow.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone for a moment.
Then made a note to protect the evening on my calendar.