Richard grunts in agreement. “Boy went and fell in love with Lydia. Sweet girl from a few towns over. He met her at some festival or some shit. She didn’t take kindly to it.”
“What did she do?” I whisper.
Laurel’s gaze slides away. “Some things you don’t speak aloud.”
I take a step closer. “She’s dead and all I hear from people is how horrible she was. That she did something so horrible that no one will speak about it. She may not have been the best mother, but she was the only one I had. Please. Just tell me the truth.”
Laurel stands, slow and stiff, setting the bowl on the porch rail. The sound of metal against wood is louder than it should be. “The truth is, Sadie was born wanting something she couldn’t have. Wanting love. Wanting power. Wanting to be somebody she wasn’t. Our life wasn’t good enough for her. And she used every person who ever cared about her to try and get it.”
Richard spits into the dirt. “Your mama was poison, girl. And the sooner you stop drinkin’ from that well, the better of you’ll be.”
The words hit so hard I almost stumble.
“She wasn’t—” I start, but it breaks halfway out. The memories I have of her, the half smiles, late night lullabies, the way she’d hold me when storms came…I was young then, but that woman, the one they say who was driven out doesn’t fit with the version everyone is giving me. She didn’t change until much later. Right before our move to Los Angeles.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. Then Richard sighs through his nose, tired more than angry. “If you’re hell-bent on pickin’ at bones, might as well see what’s left of her junk.”
He nods toward the barn at the edge of the property. “We boxed her things up years ago. Couldn’t bring ourselves to burn ’em, but we should’ve.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, wringing my hands. When they don’t say anything, I dip my head and get back in my truck. With a sigh, I turn the key, the engine roaring to life beneath me, and sit silently for several minutes as I take in everything mygrandparentshave given me about my mother.
Which is not much at all.
I know that defending her is useless, even to myself. She was a shit mother in the end. Someone who chased one addiction after another. But she wasn’t always like that. There was a time I remember her laughing as we watched movies and danced around the house like we were starring in our own Broadway musical.
Something changed and I’m not sure what it was.
But I know I am going to find out.
37
The barn loomsat the edge of the property, half in shadow, the doors bowed inward and chained with a rusted loop that isn’t actually locked. I pull it loose and push one side open. It groans in protest, dust spiraling through the air like the ghost inside have woken up.
The smell hits me first—old hay, oil, and the faint sweetness of leather long since dried out. The light filters through the cracks in the boards, cutting the space into strips of gold and shadow.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. Then I see them.
Boxes.
They are stacked in the far corner beside an old saddle stand and a broken radio, all labeled in my grandmother’s neat handwriting.Sadie.
My knees feel weak as I cross the barn, stepping over a coil of rope and the bones of a bird that didn’t find its way out. The air is thick, unmoving. I kneel, brush the fust from the top box, and pull it open.
The first thing I see is fabric—folded dresses, faded and delicate. One slips through my fingers, soft and weightless. It smells faintly of something floral and sweet. That same perfumeshe used to wear, the one that made her room smell like spring no matter the season.
Beneath the clothes are notebooks. I lift one out carefully. The cover is cracked, the edges soft with age. When I open it, I expect words—confessions, something to explain her. But it’s only sketches. Horses, wild and imperfect. Few faces. One man drawn over and over again.
I trace the last one with my thumb.
John.
Then I find the photographs.
Dozens of them, tossed in a shoe box, some curled at the edges. My mother as a teenager, leaning against a fence, hair tangled, smile too wide. In one, she’s laughing at something out of frame. In another, she is standing beside John. He’s. younger, sharper, his arm slung carelessly over her shoulders.
There’s something intimate in the way she is looking at him. But there is nothing like that with him. He’s staring at her like a sister. A friend.
My breath catches.
