“Lydia, it’s a seven-minute drive?—”
Mom’s voice cuts through, arms full of groceries.Surprise, joy, love all at once, painting her face.
A bag slips; Lydia catches it with a smirk.
“Surprise,” Lydia announces, and I can’t help laughing at the orchestrated chaos.
“Oh my God,” Mom breathes, crossing to pull us into her arms.
“My babies,” she whispers, voice thick.“I can’t believe you’re here.Nora, I thought you weren’t coming for a few days.”
“Surprise,” I murmur.Lydia deserves credit.
Mom frames our faces in her hands.“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
I notice Nick’s ring glinting on her hand.It’s a simple cut and absolutely perfect but noticing the ring has my chest tightening with something almost painful.
“Mom,” I whisper, thumb brushing the ring.“I’m so happy for you.He did good.”
Her eyes glisten.“He did.And thank you, both of you.That you’re all here—it means everything.”
“Wait—where’s Nick?”I ask.
“He had something important.But he’ll be at the engagement party tonight.”
Mom and I settle outside on the sofa, facing the lake.I take it all in for a minute.The warmth of late June, calm water, and distant laughter coming from the house.She takes my hand, asking the quiet question she always knows I’ll answer honestly.
“How are you really doing, sweetheart?”
I let it out, soft.“I’m good.Not perfect.But good in a way that matters.”
She nods, relief softening her posture.“I was worried when you left—you were so…”
“Fragile?”I offer softly.
“I wouldn’t say fragile.Hurting, yes.But leaving was the right call.You needed to find yourself.”
“It was,” I say quietly.
“I’m really proud of you,” Mom says.
Simple words, heavier than any grand declaration.“You’re your father’s daughter.”
She reaches into her purse, producing a velvet box.
“Happy birthday Leni.”
Inside: a delicate gold chain, moonstone pendant, tiny diamonds catching light like captured stars.
“Your dad bought this,” she says, quietly.“Before you were born.He held onto it and made me promise,” She chokes, eyes glistening.
Tears slip freely.I trace the moonstone.“Mom…”
“Moonstones are for new beginnings,” she says.“For anyone brave enough to follow their own light, even in darkness.”
I lean in, letting her hold me, letting myself feel—grief, memory, hope.
The front door slams and another familiar voice enters the kitchen.
