It’s her pride. Her name.
Her beloved home.
But it’s just a house.
“I don’t belong here anymore. I love you, Mama. I always will. But I can’t stay. We are leaving. Today.”
Her breath hitches, and for a long, painful moment, I’m sure she’s going to yell at me—something she’s never done, not even as our world collapsed in on itself over and over again.My father. My sister. My aunt.
I cannot stay. I know the truth in my heart. I cannot live with her knowing what she’s done, who she is.
In the end, she doesn’t yell, though. She just stares at me, fire in her eyes, and gives a sharp nod. “Then go. To your city. To your new name.” Her eyes flick to Michael, then back to me. “I hope it brings you whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I fight them back. “This isn’t goodbye. I’ll come back to visit. I’ll call when I can.”
She isn’t listening, though. She turns away from me, her soft frame disappearing down the shadowy hall.
I turn to Michael, ready to break, and he holds out a hand. We step onto the porch, and I refuse to look back. When the door shuts behind me with a soft thud, it sounds a lot like goodbye.
I suck in a deep breath, blinking away tears. It’s done. I’m free. I knew goodbye would hurt, but it’s over.There’s no going back.
Even as I think it, as I force the thought into my mind, etching it across my brain matter, something in me fights against it. This all feels too heavy for me to bear, and I find myself wanting to turn around, to run to my mother and fling myself into her arms. To stay.
But I don’t.
I let Michael lead me to the car, his kind, worried eyes trained on my face. We pull away from Foxglove in silence, and I know, once I leave, there’s truly no coming back.
I’ve chosen this new life. It’s what I want. But still, I feel as if I’m losing something.
I give in and look back over my shoulder just once as we pull down the gravel road. And Foxglove—the house that has been home to so many Wilde women before me—stays behind, watching and waiting as the last Wilde woman drives away.
Later - 2024
My favorite little bookshop on Jefferson is booming today, filled with customers excited for their big sale. All around me, people shove books into baskets, stocking up on adventures. I’m a browser. I can’t grab based on covers alone. I take my time witheach story, read the back cover, then the first few pages. I feel the weight of it in my hand.
Each story is a commitment, and I want to feel drawn to it. Like I can’t possibly read anything else.
On the endcap, my daughter’s novel sits, and I stick one in my basket without thought. I think I have about fifty copies now. She’d be embarrassed if she knew, but I can’t help it. I’m so proud of her. Of whom she’s become. The life she’s built.
I stop at the next shelf, lost in thought.
“You’re eyeing that Atwood like she owes you money.” A voice slips behind me, warm and casual, as if we’re old friends.
I turn, expecting to see someone I know, but instead I find an unfamiliar face. He’s tall. Forty-something, maybe. That smile—that boyish little grin—confuses me at first, then charms me.
Normally, a man who looks like that staring at me might make me blush, but I don’t. Maybe I’ve grown out of it, too old for girlish habits.
Still, I find myself standing a little taller. A little straighter.
“She might. I own two copies already, but not this cover.” I tap it with my finger. “I think I need it.”
He chuckles and grabs two copies, placing them into his basket. I blink at him. “One for you, one for me.”
And that’s how it starts. A conversation in the fiction aisle. A gifted book. A coffee after, across the street. A walk back to my car that seems to last both forever and not nearly long enough. Then a dinner invitation.
Which leads to another.
And another.
