Before she can respond, I hang up and set the phone face down.
The silence afterward is louder than her voice. But at least it’s mine.
And in this silence, I let myself feel what I couldn’t say to her: anger, hurt, disappointment… but also defiance.
Because she’s wrong.
The store is more than bookshelves and paper. It’smine. And I’m not letting it go.
I sit there for a long moment, staring blankly at the phone like it might apologize.
But of course it doesn’t.
A sharp ache pulses behind my eyes, the kind that comes from holding back too much emotion for too long. I swipe at the corner of my eye with the sleeve of Elijah’s hoodie—becausethat’s what I’m wearing now, practically every day. His clothes. His space. His steadiness.
And still, my world feels like it’s being held together with thumbtacks and strings.
She called the store my“little shop.”Like it’s a lemonade stand. Like it’s not the place I built from the ground up with nothing but grit and a dream. Like I didn’t pour my savings, my soul, and years of 12-hour days into it. Like it’s not the first place I’ve ever felt truly like myself. A bitter laugh escapes me.
My mom only sees the surface. Appearances. Stability in the form of desk jobs and healthcare plans and men with clean-cut resumes. She doesn't see that some people, people like me, need meaning more than we need a 401(k). That the store isn’t just my career. It’s my purpose. It’s where I feel useful and seen. It’s where people come in lost and leave with stories that change them. It’s where I met Mia, Sophia, and Elijah.
God,Elijah.
Just the thought of him makes my breath catch. As if on cue, I hear the soft sound of the door and then the familiar weight of his footsteps crossing the apartment.
He finds me curled on the couch, still clutching my phone like it might bite.
His brows draw together instantly. “Princess? What's wrong?”
The tears I’ve been holding back start slipping free before I can even speak.
He doesn’t ask why I'm like this. He’s across the room in seconds, down on one knee in front of me, cupping my face with hands that are strong and steady and safe.
“She called,” I whisper.
He doesn’t have to ask who. “What did she say?”
“That I should quit. That the break-in was asignto grow up and move on.” My voice cracks. “Like the store is a phase. Like I’m a phase.”
His jaw ticks, his hands tightening slightly at my jaw before relaxing. “She’s wrong,” he says, low and certain.
I nod, but it’s a weak, wobbly thing.
He pulls me into his arms, pressing me tight against his chest, one hand on the back of my head and the other stroking slow, soothing lines down my spine.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs. “You hear me? I’ve always been proud of you. The store, the way you’ve handled everything, even now, when you’re scared, you’re still standing. You’re still fighting.”
I bury my face in his shirt, breathing him in, trying to let his words settle somewhere deep.
“You don’t have to be everything all the time, Ava,” he whispers. “You don’t have to hold it all together for everyone. You can fall apart with me. I’ll hold you.”
I nod again, and this time it feels real.
This is what my mother will never understand. This is what she doesn’t even know to hope for. This feeling of being known, not just for what I do, or how I look, or who I impress, but for who I am when I’m cracked and tired and honest.
This is love. Not the performative kind. The real kind.
I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, my voice barely more than a whisper.
