"I don't know how to do that," Holly whispered.
"I know. And you shouldn't have to figure it out at your age." I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "But you're not doing it alone, okay? Uncle Drew and I are here. Your grandparents are here. We're all just trying to give you space to grow and heal while your mom works on her own journey."
Holly nodded, then turned to look me in the eye. "I'm sorry I ran off. I just... couldn't breathe."
"I understand," I said, and I did. How many times had I felt that same suffocating panic when dealing with Rachel? "But next time, please tell one of us where you're going, ok? You don't have to talk if you're not ready, but just let us know you're safe."
"I promise," she said, sounding older than her years. "I won't disappear without saying anything."
"Thank you." I pulled her into a proper hug, and after a moment's hesitation, she returned it, her thin arms wrapping around my waist.
We sat like that as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky, Eden now sprawled across both our feet, connecting us. I couldn't fix everything for Holly. I couldn't make her mother well or erase the pain of the past. But I could be here, solid and present, offering the stability she'd never had.
"Are you hungry?" I asked eventually. "I was going to reheat Uncle Drew's lasagna from the weekend."
Holly pulled back, wiping her eyes one last time. "Starving, actually."
"Well, let's go feed you then." I stood, offering her my hand. "One day at a time, okay? That's all any of us can do."
"One day at a time," she repeated, taking my hand and letting me pull her to her feet.
As we headed inside, I sent up a silent prayer for my sister, wherever she was. And another prayer of gratitude that somehow, despite everything, her daughter was here with us. Battered but not broken, learning to trust again one careful step at a time.
18
HOLLY
Iwasn't trying to eavesdrop. Honestly. I was just coming down for a glass of water, padding quietly through the house in my sock feet the way I'd learned to do at "home" so I didn't wake my mom and whatever guy she came home with. Old habits die hard, I guess.
I was almost to the kitchen when I heard Aunt Elyse's voice, tense in a way I hadn't heard before.
"I'm sorry. Did you say she wants to terminate her parental rights?"
I froze, one hand braced against the wall. She. My mother. Had to be.
"How long has it been since anyone's heard from her?" Aunt Elyse asked whoever was on the phone. I guessed it was Grandpa. He was always the one who made the difficult calls.
I should have kept walking. Should have gone back upstairs. But my feet wouldn't move.
"I see," Aunt Elyse continued. "And did she seem... clean? Sober?"
My throat tightened. Last time I'd seen Mom, she'd beenanything but clean or sober. She'd promised she'd call, promised she'd come back for me once she "figured some things out." She'd been "figuring some things out" for three months.
"So what does this mean for Holly if Rachel doesn't come back? Can she terminate her rights?" Aunt Elyse's voice dropped lower, and I had to strain to hear. "Legally, I mean."
I sucked in a breath, suddenly dizzy. Legally. They were talking about me like I was a problem to solve, a case to manage. Just like the social worker who'd come to our apartment that time, clipboard in hand, speaking in that same careful tone.
"Dad, are you sure about this? It just seems so... final."
Final. The word echoed in my head. My mother wanted to terminate her rights. She wanted to be done with me, legally and officially done. Not just gone for a while, not just figuring things out. Done.
"I'll talk to Drew," Aunt Elyse was saying, her voice fading as she moved deeper into the kitchen. "We'll need to figure out what to do if Rachel terminates her rights."
I must have made a sound because she suddenly stopped talking.
"Holly," she said, reaching for me.
I couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. I turned and ran for the front door, yanking it open and bursting outside into the humid Florida air. I didn't know where I was going—didn't have a plan beyond getting away, away from that conversation, away from the knowledge that my own mother wanted to sever the last thread connecting us.
