Beth opened her eyes and looked at her mother. “Were you scared? When you had Michael?”
Maggie considered the question. “Terrified. I had read all the books and taken all the classes, and I still felt completely unprepared. The first night in the hospital, after the visitors left and it was just me and this tiny person, I lay there in the dark and thought, 'What have I done? How am I supposed to keep this baby alive?'”
“What did you do?”
“I cried. Then I fed him. Then I cried some more.” Maggie smiled. “And then morning came, and the nurses helped me give him a bath, and slowly I started to figure it out. Not all at once. But little by little, day by day.”
Beth was quiet for a moment. “I'm glad you're here,” she said finally. “I know I said that already. But I really mean it.”
“I know you do, sweetheart.” Maggie squeezed her hand. “And I wouldn't be anywhere else.”
Gabriel and Paolo returned with a tray of drinks, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics. The farm, the orchard, the furniture orders that were keeping the workshop busy. Thomas was doing well, Gabriel reported. His father had found a new energy since they started taking on more custom work. James was talking about expanding, maybe hiring another craftsman.
Through it all, Maggie watched her daughter. Watched the way Beth's hand rested on her belly, the unconscious gestures of protection and connection. Watched the way she looked atGabriel, the silent communication of a couple who had learned each other's rhythms.
Her baby was about to have babies. The thought still took her breath away.
Outside, the sun was setting over the orchard, painting the bare branches in shades of gold and pink. Spring was coming. New life was coming. And Maggie felt immense joy in it all.
CHAPTER 11
Lauren Phillips stood at the kitchen island in her Sarasota home, staring at the calendar on the wall.
Thursday. Her mother was in Massachusetts by now, probably at Beth's farm, probably already fussing over her youngest daughter and counting down the hours until the twins arrived. Chris and Becca were still on Captiva, but they would fly up soon too, once the babies came. Michael and his family were a short drive from Boxford, ready to appear at a moment's notice.
Everyone was converging on Massachusetts. Everyone except her.
She picked up her coffee mug, found it empty, and set it down again. Through the window, she could see the backyard, where Daniel's swing set sat unused in the morning light. Her youngest was napping, worn out from a morning of toddler activities. Olivia was at school, and Lily was at a friend's house, leaving the house unusually quiet.
Quiet enough to think. Quiet enough to feel the weight of the decision she had been avoiding.
Her grandmother's voice echoed in her memory. “This mightbe the last time. The last big family gathering at the Andover house. The last chance to walk through those rooms and remember what it was like when you were kids.”
Lauren had told her and Jeff she’d think about it. But thinking had become stalling, and stalling had become avoidance, and now here she was, standing in her kitchen while her family gathered a thousand miles away.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from her sister Sarah.
Mom just sent a picture. Beth looks ready to pop. Also exhausted. Also happy. You should see it.
A moment later, the picture arrived. Beth on the farmhouse sofa, her belly impossibly large, their mother beside her with an arm around her shoulders. Both of them smiled for the camera, though Beth's face had the strained quality of someone who hadn't slept well in weeks.
Lauren studied the image for a long moment. Her mother looked good. Relaxed. Present. The worry lines that had creased her face during the cancer treatment had softened, replaced by something that looked like peace.
Two years cancer-free. Lauren still felt a jolt of gratitude every time she thought about it. There had been months when she had feared the worst, when every phone call from Florida had made her heart race with dread. The surgery, the treatment, the endless waiting for test results. She had flown down as often as she could, had sat with her mother through chemotherapy sessions, had watched her fight with a determination that was both inspiring and terrifying.
And she had won. Maggie Wheeler Moretti had won.
But the experience had changed something in Lauren. Had made her acutely aware of time, of how quickly it passed, of how easily the people you loved could slip away. She had started saying yes more often. Yes to family dinners, yes to spontaneousvisits, yes to the messy, inconvenient, wonderful chaos of staying connected.
So why was she saying no to this?
She knew the answer, even if she didn't want to admit it. The logistics were daunting. Three children, each with their own schedules and needs. Olivia's tennis practice, Lily's piano recital, Daniel's nap routine. Jeff was capable, but a week of solo parenting would exhaust him. And the drive itself, three days in an RV with her grandmother and her sister, sounded equal parts wonderful and overwhelming.
But underneath all the practical concerns was something else. Something harder to name.
Fear, maybe. Fear of going back to that house, of walking through rooms that held so many complicated memories. Fear of feeling things she’d spent years learning to set aside.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Jeff.
