Momma had agreed—after Daddy’s gentle nudging—to attend a few therapy sessions with me. To keep the peace, he’d said, but I knew it was more than that. He knew, and I knew, that as soon as I could, I’d run again, taking the baby with me, and they’d never have a relationship with them.
The sessions were awkward at first—me picking at a tissue while Momma sat stiff in her chair, arms crossed, saying allthe right things with that tight, polite smile she’d perfected for the cameras. But by the third one, her attitude started to shift. Maybe it was the way the therapist didn’t flinch when I said the hard parts out loud. Or maybe Momma ran out of energy to perform.
I found her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with her phone face down beside her and a mug of coffee cradled in both hands. An unreadable look sat on her face, but over the last few days—and a few mother-daughter therapy sessions—she’d started to soften toward me. And, frankly, she didn’t scare me anymore.
I knew how easy it was to love a child. Even one I hadn’t met yet. Whatever resentment Momma carried—that was hers to reckon with. I’d carried it for her long enough. Maybe that’s what changed between us. Perhaps she sensed I’d finally ripped that power right out of her hands.
She leaned against the counter while I rummaged through the pantry for a snack that was vaguely healthy yet didn’t taste like cardboard. Now that I had my power back, maybe they’d even let me pick out the groceries.
Then, quietly, she slid a piece of paper across the counter.
I stared down at it—a flyer.
Single Moms Meet-Up
Tuesdays at 9
Newnan Carnegie Library.
Free coffee. No judgment.
“You should go, Tallulah,” she said, her voice lower, gentler. “I could come with you, if you want. I’ll clear my calendar.”
I blinked, unsure if I’d heard her right. “You’d do that?”
“I would.”
A splinter of sadness I didn’t know I’d been carrying cracked open in me. It wasn’t a grand gesture. But it was a start. The kindof thing I used to fantasize about when I was younger, before I learned to stop hoping for it.
She gave a soft, practiced smile, collected her mug, and disappeared down the hall toward her office.
Not even a full second later, Daddy came barreling through the back door like he’d returned from a mission.
“Am I hearing correctly from your brother that you don’t have a baby registry?” he asked, like I’d confessed to a federal crime. “You’re nearly there, girl—we should at least go into town and pick out a few things.”
“I didn’t think I needed one,” I said, still staring at the flyer. “I wasn’t sure anyone would even…”
“Nonsense,” he said, already grabbing his keys. “We should throw you a shower. We’ll do it here.”
From the hallway, Momma called out, “I’ll add it to the calendar.”
The mayor of Newnan, Georgia, publicly throwing her unwed pregnant daughter a baby shower. Six months ago, that would’ve been unthinkable. Six weeks ago, even. But here we were.
I was still processing that when something else clicked. “Wait a second—you talked to Doyle?”
Daddy tossed me my coat and purse from the mudroom hook. “He says hello. And that he’s glad you’re doing just fine here.”
I made myself ask it. “Did he say anything else? About… anyone in Savannah?”
He paused, giving me a long look. “He did say something odd. Maybe you can figure it out. He said, ‘Tell my sister I did the right thing.’”
Chapter Forty-Two
CHARLIE
I’dbeenstaringatthe damn letter for three days, moving it around the studio like a cursed object. Hiding it under paint rags, tucking it behind half-finished canvases like that would stop me from reaching for it. Time and time again, I found my hand resting on the seam of the tab, itching to open it.
What if all it said was to leave her alone?
