"And now," Drew said, standing up, "those pancakes aren't going to eat themselves. Who's hungry?"
Holly managed a small smile. "Me. Definitely me."
As we walked back into the house, Holly between us, I felt a mixture of pride and trepidation. We'd navigated this conversation better than I'd feared, but I knew it was just the beginning. Rachel's reappearance would complicate everything. The adoption, Holly's emotional stability, our family's new normal.
But looking at Holly's face, still tearful but resolute, I knew we'd get through whatever came next. Together.
29
ELYSE
Iwas arranging a new display of summer thrillers when Grace walked into the bookstore, two iced coffees in hand and her trademark Lilly Pulitzer golf outfit practically glowing in the afternoon sun.
"You look like you swallowed a lemon," she announced, setting one of the coffees on the counter. "And before you say it's your 'concentrating face,' I've known you too long for that excuse to work."
I sighed, abandoning my half-hearted attempt at an eye-catching pyramid of paperbacks. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's seen all your faces." Grace perched on the stool behind the counter, crossing her legs elegantly. "Including the one when you thought bangs were a good idea in 2018."
"We agreed never to speak of that again," I said, clutching my chest in mock horror.
Grace's laugh filled the quiet store. "So, what's going on? Drew not making it home this weekend? Or is it..." She hesitated, her expression softening. "Holly?"
I picked up the coffee and took a long sip, buying myself time. "Holly's great. Everything's great."
"Mmhmm. And I'm secretly a duchess who writes romance novels as a cover for my international espionage activities." Grace raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Try again."
I collapsed onto the second stool, deflating like a day-old balloon. "Is it terrible if I admit that being a mom is harder than I expected?"
"It would be terrible if you thought it would be easy," Grace countered. "Parenting a teenager isn't exactly like house training a puppy. Though the sleep deprivation is similar."
"At least Eden doesn't slam doors at midnight because I suggested maybe—just maybe—staying up until three in the morning before she has to work at the bakery wasn't the best idea." I rubbed my temples. "I used to be the cool aunt, Grace. The one who would sneak her extra dessert and take her shopping for inappropriately expensive shoes. Now I'm the villain who enforces curfews and asks her to switch her laundry."
"The transformation is complete. You've become..." Grace lowered her voice dramatically, "A Parent."
I groaned. "I just wish there was a manual. 'So You've Suddenly Acquired a Teenager: Now What?'"
"Pretty sure Sarah has that book. Probably highlighted and annotated." Grace took a sip of her coffee. "But seriously, what's really bothering you? Because I know you well enough to know it's not just about bedtimes and homework."
The bell above the door jingled, and we both glanced over to see Mrs. Henderson shuffle in, making a beeline for the large-print romance section as she did every Tuesday. I gave her a quick wave before turning back to Grace.
"I'm afraid I'm going to mess her up," I admitted quietly. "Holly's already been through so much with Rachel. What if I can't be what she needs? What if I'm just making everything worse?"
"By providing stability, love, and boundaries? Yes, how dare you." Grace's tone was dry, but her eyes were kind. "Elyse, that girl is flourishing. Have you seen her lately? Really seen her?"
"Of course I?—"
"She walks taller. She laughs. Actual, genuine laughter. Jenna says she's developing her own signature pastries at the bakery." Grace leaned forward. "When she first got here, she was like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap at any moment. Now she's...unfolding."
I blinked rapidly, fighting back unexpected tears. "Then why does it feel like we're constantly at odds? Last night she told me I 'didn't understand anything about her life' because I playfully suggested pink hair dye might eventually damage her hair."
"Because she's sixteen, and that's literally in the job description of every sixteen-year-old since the dawn of time." Grace patted my hand. "Remember when you were that age? You told your mother her meatloaf was 'a culinary crime against humanity' and didn't speak to her for three days."
"That meatloaf was a crime," I protested. "She put raisins in it, Grace. Raisins."
"My point," Grace continued, ignoring my outburst, "is that conflict doesn't mean failure. It means you're doing the work. The real work."
Mrs. Henderson appeared at the counter, clutching three bodice-rippers with shirtless cowboys on the covers. I rang her up, making small talk about her upcoming cruise while Grace flipped through a nearby magazine, the picture of discretion.
