It was late winter when there was a knock on the front door. My mother and I were eating dinner and weren't expecting company. She stood and checked her reflection in the mirror before going to the door.

I stirred my soup, feeling strangely awkward being alone at the huge table.

"Good evening," my mother said to the person at the door. Whoever it was, she didn't know them. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Mrs. Rose?" the woman asked.

The spoon fell from my hand and clattered on my plate. My mom turned sharply, probably expecting me to start screaming. But I clamped a hand over my mouth and she turned back to the door, understanding this was something else.

"No," my mother said. "Rose is my ex-husband's name."

"I apologize. Your daughter never told me your last name. Is she here?"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" It had never occurred to me how similar my mother and I were. Just as I hadn't seen Constantine all those years in church because I was too eager to go and hang out with my friends, my mother had been too busy checking her phone and talking to my aunt after services to really pay attention. I wondered if there was a prayer for that kind of forgiveness. There were a lot of prayers I wished I had made.

"I'm Constantine. I'm here to see your daughter." Constantine pushed on the door, but my mother held it.

"You can't see her."

"Wait, Mom," I said, and both women were quiet. "Let- let her in."

My mother slowly opened the door more.

And there was Constantine, the old woman. Even from a distance, I could tell she had somehow gotten even older. My mother slowly backed away so she could enter. She didn't offer to take Constantine's coat or invite her to sit down. My mother was a wolf, ready to strike.

And I, at that moment, loved my mother very much.

"Hello, Constantine," I said.

The woman held a round container in her hands. "I brought you a pie."

A peace offering. The memory of the sweet dessert made me nauseous.

"Would you care to explain how you know my daughter?" my mother asked.

And the story of our relationship was told. My mother stayed mostly silent throughout, and Constantine would occasionally glance over at me like she wanted me to add to it, but I never did.

When the old woman explained she had hit me, her small frame shook and her eyes glittered. My mother's jaw tightened and I could almost hear the bone cracking under the pressure.

"And when was it that you met?" she asked. I knew what she was asking. After all, it was right after I met Constantine that the screaming began.

"Two summers ago," Constantine said, sounding weaker than I had ever heard her.

My mother stood from her seat on the couch and strode to the door, yanking it open with a burst of cold air.

"Get out," she ordered.

"Mom--" I started to say, but she didn't even look at me.

"If you ever come near my house or my child again, I will call the police."

Constantine hobbled to the door, facing the ground.

"Constantine, wait!" I shouted, falling out of my chair. But she was already outside, and my mother slammed the door shut behind her.

The fury in her expression made my knees feel weak. "You are not to see that woman ever again, do you understand me?"

"But--"

"You will not see her again!" Her voice left no room for argument. "Go to your room."

Tiny embers of the rebellious teenager I used to be flickered, wanted to ignore her and run out that door. But that rebel was dead now, replaced with something broken. So I went up the stairs. As I was ascending, I saw Constantine had left the pie with its perfect latticework. I watched as my mother threw it into the garbage along with the remainder of our dinner.

Then, back into the fog.