The cab winds past stone fences and iron gates, sunlight bleeding gold over the vineyards. It’s hard to believe my mother lives in a place where everything smells like crushed grapes and old money.
When we pull up, the house rises from the slope like it’s been here for centuries. Pale stone walls, green shutters, ivy creeping up one side. There’s a faint hum of bees somewhere near the vines.
My mother is waiting by the doorway. She looks smaller than I remember, her hair twisted into a loose bun, flour dusting the sleeve of her sweater.
She’s smiling. Or maybe she’s trying to.
“Chloe,” she says. Just that. My name.
I swallow hard and step forward. “Hi, Mom.”
She smells like butter and yeast like bread fresh out of the oven.
Inside, the house is warm and full of light. There are open windows, jars of preserves on the counter and stacks of cookbooks.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says as she wipes her hands on a towel.
“Yeah. It was kind of last minute.”
“I figured your father sent you.”
There it is. No warm reunion. Just the shadow of his name.
She pours us tea. The table between us is scarred wood.
“I’m… thinking of opening a bakery,” she says after a beat, staring into her cup. “Nothing fancy. Just breads and pastries. Something small.”
“That sounds nice,” I say quietly.
She glances up, as if testing my sincerity. “It is. It’ll be mine.”
We sit in silence. Outside, the wind rattles the vines against the window.
Finally, she sighs. “So. What does he want this time?”
I trace the rim of my mug. “He said you’re filing for divorce.”
Her mouth twitches. “And he sent you to talk me out of it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The air thickens. I feel twelve again, sitting at that long dining table, pretending not to hear the yelling from down the hall. Pretending not to flinch when the plates shattered.
Mom pushes back her chair, stands, and walks to the sink. “I married a man who hit me, Chloe. Or do you forget the number of times that happened?”
My stomach twists. “I don’t.”
“I know it’s easier to pretend,” she says, her voice softer now, “but pretending doesn’t make it untrue.” She turns, arms crossed over her chest. “You think I wanted to run? You think leaving you there didn’t break me?”
I blink hard. “You didn’t even ask me to come with you.”
“I know. But it was better for you there. You have your whole future there. You have your father’s money.” She exhales shakily. “But I couldn’t stay. I needed an out. And this,” she gesturesaround the room, at the sunlight, the flour-dusted counters, the quiet, “this is my second chance.”
Silence again. The kind that feels alive, breathing between us.
She walks back to the table and sits. Her eyes are tired, rimmed red. “You were always closer to him.”
