But what’s waiting on the porch stops me in my tracks. It’s a wooden tray. Not fancy, not store-bought but handmade, from the looks of it. The kind of thing someone might sand down in a barn during a quiet afternoon. And sitting on it? Breakfast.
A white plate filled with cheesy eggs and cinnamon toast from and beside it, a hot cup of my favorite tea. Chamomile withhoney. A single pink rose in a tiny jar sits between them, petals soft and just beginning to open.
But what breaks me is the folded note tucked beneath the cup. It’s my name written in his unmistakably messy scrawl. My fingers tremble a little as I unfold it.
Olive,
I know mornings have been hard lately. Thought I’d try to make this one a little easier.
There’s more I want to say but for now, just know this: I meant every word last night.
I’ll be at the barn later. If you feel like dropping by, I’ll be there. No pressure. Just hope.
— L
I read it twice. Then a third time.
And the ache behind my ribs is something I don’t recognize at first. It’s not grief or fear, but a hope that’s gentle and small, but stubborn. It’s enough to make me smile through the tears. I sit on the edge of the bed with the tray in my lap, the scent of cinnamon and honey curling into the cool morning air.
I haven’t touched the food yet. The tea’s gone lukewarm. The note is folded neatly, sitting under my palm like a secret I haven’t decided what to do with.
I hear the door creak behind me and then the slow, careful steps of someone who knows not to interrupt too fast. Mom sits beside me, hands wrapped around her own mug of coffee, still in her robe. Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, and she’s got that look on her face that makes it hard to hide anything.
I don’t try.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit quietly, eyes on the pink rose still bobbing in its jar.
“I know,” she says gently. “But you’re doing something. That counts for a lot.”
I nod, throat tight.
We sit in silence for a moment. My chest aches in that slow, dragging way grief always leaves behind even when it’s not fresh anymore.
“I loved him,” I say. “Ilovehim. And I don’t think that’s changed. But I’m scared that the next time it breaks it’ll be for good.”
Mom hums, like she’s heard that thought a hundred times in her own life.
“Is love ever not scary?” she asks, voice low. “Especially the real kind?”
I glance over at her. She’s staring at me, not pushing. Just there.
“I used to think love was about choosing someone who made you feel safe,” I say. “But Liam doesn’t always feel safe. Sometimes he feels like a storm I want to run into and run away from at the same time.”
“And how do you feel this morning?”
I pause. “Like I might want to stand in the rain a little while longer.”
Mom smiles softly.
“You always were your father’s daughter,” she says. “Stubborn and brave.”
I huff a small laugh. “Is that what this is? Brave?”
“Brave isn’t the absence of fear, Olive.” She nudges my knee. “It’s doing the hard thing anyway.”
I nod, letting her words settle.
After a moment, she says, “You don’t owe him forgiveness. But if your heart’s still leaning toward him then maybe it’s time to see what happens if he meets you halfway.”
