“Pass the knife,” Stella said casually, and Tyler did, and it wasn’t until after that he realized what had just happened. His daughter, asking for a knife like it was nothing. Like she belonged here.
“That was quite something yesterday,” Margo said eventually, watching Stella work. “You all were.”
“Joey did the hard part,” Stella deflected. “I just cut tomatoes.”
“You did more than that.” Margo’s voice was thoughtful. “You took charge. Made decisions. Kept everyone calm.”
“Learned from the best,” Stella said, glancing at her great-grandmother.
“No,” Margo said quietly. “You knew what to do because you’re a Walsh. Because this place is in your blood, whether you grew up here or not.”
Stella’s hands stilled on the tomato she was slicing.
“You know,” Meg said into the sudden silence, “I didn’t grow up here either. Not really. Summers, yes. But I spent sixteen years away too.”
“But you belonged,” Stella said. “You had history here.”
“I had to choose to belong,” Meg corrected. “Had to decide this was home. Just like you did yesterday.”
“Without thinking about it,” Tyler added. “When it mattered, you didn’t hesitate.”
Margo set down her coffee mug with decisive precision. “Speaking of belonging.” She stood, moving to the ancient filing cabinet in the corner. “I have something for you.”
From the bottom drawer, she pulled out a small paper bag, edges soft with age. Stella recognized it immediately.
“Are those—” Stella’s voice caught as Margo pulled out two shells, worn smooth by the ocean.
“From your first morning walk,” Margo said simply. “You gave them to me for safekeeping. I’ve been keeping them safe.”
“But I thought—I wasn’t ready?—”
“You weren’t ready then.” Margo returned to the prep station, bag in hand. “You thought you had to earn your place. Prove something. But belonging isn’t earned, sweetheart. It’s recognized.”
She opened the bag, revealing the shells Stella had gathered that first morning. Ordinary treasures made extraordinary by patience and meaning.
“You know,” Meg said softly, “I placed my first shell not that long ago. Dawn light, empty restaurant, Margo holding the ladder.”
“Thirty years late,” Margo added with gentle humor. “But perfect timing all the same.”
Stella looked between them—her great-grandmother with her bandaged hand and patient eyes, her aunt who’d found her way home, her father who’d built a life here despite everything.
“Is it time?” she asked quietly.
“Past time,” Margo said.
Tyler got the ladder without being asked. Set it up in the spot they all knew without discussing—near Meg’s recent addition, in the constellation of family stories.
Margo moved to hold one side, and the ladder wobbled slightly under her one-handed grip.
“Here.” Meg stepped in, steadying the other side. No fuss, just quiet support.
Tyler wrapped an arm around Margo’s waist, taking her weight so she could focus on holding steady.
Stella climbed carefully, shells cupped in her palm. Up close, the ceiling revealed its secrets—decades of moments, each shell a story, a choice, a claiming of place.
“There,” Margo said softly, indicating a spot. “Been saving it for you.”
Stella reached up, pressed the first shell into place. Such a small gesture. Such an enormous moment.
