When I step into the apartment, mom is sitting on her chair in the living room, a cup of tea in one hand and a copy ofGarden Witcheryin the other. She doesn't even look up when she asks, "How was the club?"
"Sophie came," I say, smiling without even thinking. Plot watches me from his perch on the cat tree in the corner, hisyellow eyes narrowed in judgment.
Mom hums. "I like that little dove."
My chest warms and I whisper, "Me too."
"She's been hurt," she murmurs, turning another page. Her eyes stay on the book, but her voice is quiet.
There's a beat of silence. I force out the truth, though it sticks in my throat. "She has cancer, Mom."
Mom pauses for a second, then nods, knowing, not the specifics, probably, but Mom always had a way of just sensing and feeling things. Dad used to say she was too empathetic for her own good. She always said she'd rather feel too much than not enough, and he loved her for that sensitive heart of hers, even if he hated seeing it broken.
"Our dove is strong," Maeve murmurs now, closing her book with care and placing it gently on the coffee table like it's something sacred. She rises from her chair, her long black cardigan swaying around her legs, and turns to me with a look far more serious than I've seen in a while. "You need to be sure, Callum."
The usual dreamlike lilt to her voice is gone, replaced by something more urgent.
"She has a tough road ahead—she's going to look different, she's going to feel different. She might try to pull away. She'll be tired. She might fall into depression. This journey won't be easy. Do you feel ready for that?"
Her words don't scare me.
Instead, I feel... resolved.
I remember being vulnerable about my feelings with Sophie, speaking about my dad in a way I haven't been able to in so long. Not afraid to sound odd, delusional, or naive.
And she didn't laugh or scoff or roll her eyes at me. She was open, smiled, and thanked me, as if she needed those words likeshe needed air. She made space for me, and I made space for her. Completely judgment-free and safe.
"Yes," I say simply, and I mean it. More than anything.
I know the feelings I have toward her are a crush. I'm old enough to acknowledge that, but I will be whatever she needs me to be. I will be her friend, a steady rock for her to lean on, a chauffeur if she needs it.
A cheerleader, a support system, afriend.
I will show up. I will stay.
And Sophie—in any capacity—is a gift I'd be lucky to hold.
Chapter Eleven
Sophie
Dear Sophie,
We wanted to return our key to the apartment. It doesn't feel right for us to have it after what he did.
Your health, happiness, and safety are our priority. Always.
Honey, please know that we are so ashamed of him and his actions, and we are so sorry for the pain he's caused you. It's been incredibly hard for us to come to terms with what he's done. His actions were careless, callous, and downright cruel, and we are so disappointed in the son we raised.
I need you to know that we are not currently in contact with him. If you decide to reach out to us, please know that we will not give him any information, nor will we let him know we're in contact with you.
If you would prefer complete separation, we completely understand and will respect your decision.
But we are always here for you. You always have a home with us.
I put some casseroles in the freezer—yes, I made you two trays of that chicken and rice casserole you love. Just bake for thirty minutes at 350. There's also a tray of meatballs and ziti. Your favorite banana nut muffins are in the fridge. I also went food shopping and picked up some groceries for you, just in case.
In the box on the coffee table are those mastectomy shirts, and in the bag are a couple of other things I read that were helpful for people going through chemotherapy. Also, a few little gifts for you. Just because.
