The call came on a Wednesday afternoon in November, two years after the Webb rescue operation.
I was at the restaurant, training a new line cook on our osso buco recipe, when my phone rang.
Unknown number. I almost didn't answer.
But something made me pick up.
"Isabella Moretti?"
"Speaking."
"This is Dr. Helen Rodriguez from Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. I'm calling about your mother, Sophia Russo."
The world stopped.
My mother. The woman who'd sold me at an auction twenty-nine years ago. The woman I hadn't spoken to in decades. The woman who'd chosen vodka and money over her daughter.
"I don't understand. Why are you calling me?"
"Your mother is a patient here. Stage four pancreatic cancer. She's Mrs. Moretti, she doesn't have much time. A few weeks, maybe less. She's been asking for you."
"She doesn't have anyone else to ask?"
"No family that we can locate. No emergency contacts except a neighbor who gave us your name. I understand this is complicated, but"
