Nathan’s P.O.V

It was supposed to be a toast. Just a simple, heartfelt, maybe slightly tipsy toast for my mother’s sixtieth. I had the flute in one hand, mic in the other, and the damn spotlights were warm on my back. I was halfway into a line about how she managed to raise me and my older sister and still keep her wits when—without warning—she stepped forward and took the mic from me.

“Mom?” I blinked. “What are you—?”

She patted my arm like I was a child ...