Our first course arrives. My gazpacho looks so beautiful, with an artful drizzle of olive oil on the surface, that I think twice before dipping my spoon in it.
Mom smiles sadly as she tucks into her salade ni?oise. “I was so passionate, so eager.” She looks away before adding, “When I went to my audition at ABT, I was certain I would get in.”
“You auditioned for ABT?” I asked, my eyes growing wide.
She nods. “Many, many times.”
“What?” I say, trying to keep my voice low.
She takes another bite. “This is amazing! If I stay in Paris too long, I won’t fit into my clothes.”
I’m not letting her change the subject. “What happened with ABT?”
She grimaces. “The same thing that happens to most dancers who audition: I didn’t get in. I never made it past the second round. I went to California and auditioned for the San Francisco Ballet and the LA Ballet. Nothing. I was good. I had talent and ambition. Just not enough.”
I freeze, unable to keep eating like this isn’t the biggest news I’ve ever heard about her. Mom has never shared this with me before. No one in my family has.
“What did you do?” I ask, holding my breath.
Mom shrugs. “I kept up with my lessons. I auditioned for the smaller companies. And then one day I realized that it wasn’t going to happen for me. I could have persevered, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt like ballet didn’t want me. I’d spent years of my life on lessons and competitions, and I had nothing to show for it. I was tired of the disappointment, of the rejections. So I went to college in Philadelphia. At first, I thought I’d feel completely lost and that I’d regret giving up my dream. But I didn’t. I had a great time. I made friends, I found new things to get passionate about, and I met your dad. I have a great career, I love my job, and I can take my daughter to fancy lunches in Paris. I don’t regret a thing.”
I exhale slowly, trying to process this story. I didn’t really know my mother until now, and it’s partly my fault. All these years when we argued about my passion for ballet, I never thought to ask her how she truly felt about it.
“Giving up is not the right choice for me,” I say, my voice steady but my hands shaking.
Mom smiles. “It took me a long time to see it, but I know that now. I’m sorry I haven’t been more supportive of your dream. I was just trying to show you that you could be happy without ballet. But Grandma Joan told me you found our ancestor, the danseuse étoile. I know what it means to you.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. I feel exhausted, battered. I don’t think I’ve fully accepted what happened to me, and what life will look like for me in the next few months.
“I want to become a professional ballet dancer. This is what I’ve always dreamed of,” I say, more to convince myself. “But what if it doesn’t happen?”
Mom nods slowly. “Then you will be okay.”
“Will I?” I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. What kind of faux pas would it be to start crying in such a fancy restaurant?
“Mia,” Mom says, determined. “Look at me. Soon this will just feel like a small bump in the road. Trust me.”
“I missed my chance with ABT. Twice.”
“I thought I wanted this more than anything else; then my life took a different path, and it was perfect. This isn’t about missing chances. It’s about enjoying the journey. You should pursue your dream for as long as you want to, but you should also allow yourself to change dreams along the way.”
I nod and silently get back to my meal. I want to believe she’s right, but I can’t shake off everything—and everyone—I’ve lost in the last couple of days. Still, I know it deep inside me: I’m going to dance again.
* * *
We’ve just gone back up to the room when my phone rings. I’m not going to lie: my heart breaks all over again when I realize it’s an unknown number. Louis hasn’t texted or called since I left the hospital. But then again, neither have I. My feelings are still too raw, and everything has been said between us. Maybe it was always meant to end this way. A clean break, just like my collarbone.
“Hello?”
“Madem— Mia,” a male voice says, sounding a little uncertain. “It’s Monsieur Dabrowski.”
I take a seat in one of the armchairs, my heart racing. “I’m so sorry…，” I say. “I promised I wouldn’t let you down, and…”