Elizabeth felt as though her every nerve was exposed as she made her way to the address she'd been given. During Elizabeth's life there had been hardly a day that went by when she didn't think upon her mother, when she didn't wonder what the other woman had been like, wonder if Anne would have been proud of her. She wanted so much for Anne to be proud of her.
She spent three hours in the gym that morning, trying to burn off the nervous energy that had been coursing through her. It did little good though. She was still all anxiety and worry, feeling as though the edge of one of her panics was just lurking and waiting to strike. Not today. She'd not let her discomfort of crowds get to her today.
At Anne's door, Elizabeth paused and considered whether she truly wanted to do this. What if Anne was not what Elizabeth expected. Or, more worrying, what if Elizabeth wasn't what Anne wanted?
She looked down at her clothes - mostly white with threads of marigold running through it, colours to make her feel the most like herself - and brushed away imaginary lint and dust, shifting the wine bottle between her hands.
Then she knocked, brushing back a curl of red hair, and waited.