Then she powered the phone off, slid it into the back of a drawer, and shut it with quiet finality—leaving only silence and the weight of everything unsaid.
She exhaled slowly, the silence heavier than relief.
Whatever came next, Caitlin would not face it alone.
Chapter 11
Roots
Darcy
Darcy sat on the picnic table beside her Airstream, sunlight filtering through the trees. She couldn’t stop thinking about Grandma Rose. Today she’d find the home where her grandmother had grown up—and maybe, a piece of herself she’d lost along the way.
Her grandmother hadn’t just told stories of this place—she had been Darcy’s anchor after her parents died in the crash. Rose was home: safety and love rolled into one steady presence. When she passed, Darcy was left with little more than distant relatives and Jason’s suffocating family—except for Izzy, who had become like the sister she’d never had.
Maybe that was why she’d clung to Jason for so long. Losing him, however cruel he’d been, had felt like losing her last thread of belonging.
Even now, though miles separated them, Jason’s shadow followed her like a memory that refused to fade. Sometimes she could hear his voice—measured, polite, and poisonous. The thought of ever facing him again knotted something inside her.Freedom felt like a word that belonged to other women—women with safety, distance, and power.
She pushed the thought away and started the engine.
A small paved road led her through the heart of southern scenery—pastures speckled with grazing cows, barns with red paint faded by wind and rain, and fields gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. For the first time, she saw the places her grandmother had described—lemonade sweating on the porch, bare feet pressed into dusty earth, laughter drifting from open windows. Each sight turned a story into vivid reality.
Darcy ached for connection; it felt as if her own roots were drawing her here, spanning generations.
The mailbox had the name Thompson painted on the side. The house—sharp white paint over weathered wood, porch railings dressed in pots of unfamiliar flowers—looked both right and wrong. The silhouette was her grandmother’s, but the details belonged to strangers.
Darcy parked at the edge of the drive, nerves stirring. She imagined stepping onto the porch, touching the railings smoothed by years of hands, maybe feeling her grandmother’s spirit reaching out from the shifting curtains upstairs. She wanted to knock but hesitated, a ripple of nerves tightening in her chest.
And if they turned her away—if she didn’t belong here either—then what did she have left? Just Izzy, and the stubborn will to keep going.
A slow-moving pickup passed, its driver regarding her for a beat too long. Darcy flinched, anxiety prickling beneath her skin. Maybe it was nothing—but fear had been her shadow too long, and she wasn’t ready to step fully into the open.
She gripped the wheel, breathing in the scent of cut grass and honeysuckle drifting on the breeze. Then she climbed out, gravel crunching softly beneath her shoes. The house was quiet;nobody seemed to be home.Just a quick peek,she told herself.What harm could there be in remembering?
Hydrangeas brushed her arm as she stepped past the porch—their blooms a soft wash of blue and violet against the white railings. As Darcy rounded the corner toward the backyard, sunlight dappled through the trees. Beyond a patch of gold, an old potting shed leaned under the weight of years, its boards weathered to silver. A faint sound carried from behind it—the rustle of vines and the steady snip of shears. Darcy hesitated.
Before she could turn back, a figure emerged from behind the shed.
An older woman stepped into view, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat. She balanced a basket brimming with tomatoes—reds, yellows, and oranges glowing against her garden-stained gloves. Her smile was quick and curious.
“Well, you near about scared me to death, child,” she said with a laugh. “You looking for somebody—or just admiring the tomatoes?”
Heat rushed to Darcy’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry for snooping. My grandmother lived here a long time ago. I just… wanted to see it for myself.”
The woman dusted her palms on her apron, eyes flicking thoughtfully toward Darcy. Her expression softened, and she came closer, curiosity genuine. “And who would your grandmother be, dear?”
“Her name was Rose,” Darcy said quietly, her voice full of affection.
Recognition flickered—soft and startled—across the woman’s face. “Rose O’Connor?” she repeated, as if testing a name she hadn’t spoken in decades. “Lord, I haven’t thought of her in years.”
Darcy nodded, eyes shining. “Yes. That was my grandmother.”
The woman’s smile faltered for just a moment, her tone turning gentle. “Was?”
Her eyes clouded, and Darcy’s heart sank at the weight of that single word.
Darcy nodded again, a little sadly. “She passed away a few years ago.”
