And armed with the knowledge of the almighty internet, I made an appointment with a lawyer.
Not the hotshot my supersmart brother-in-law had lined up.
Just…a lawyer.
And yeah, maybe I was sacrificing a little clout and expertise by doing it this way. Maybe it seemed like I was cutting off my nose to spite my face.
But I wasn’t.
If I was going to reclaim my independence, it had to start here. With me. Handling my own affairs.
And honestly?
After one phone conversation with Mallory Anderson—a woman who sounded more like a no-nonsense friend than a stiff-suited attorney—I wasn’t convinced I was sacrificing anything at all.
She’d asked a ton of questions, then assigned me homework—a list of things to collect before our appointment. And somehow, hearing her calm, capable voice made me feel a little more capable, too. A little less overwhelmed.
So, I stayed busy.
Laundry. Errands. Cooking.
All the things Ashley had been doing since Mom’s accident.
Busy enough to avoid having a meaningful conversation with my mom.
Busy enough to avoid sitting still long enough to think too hard about everything else.
Because whenever I did stop, even for five seconds, my mind would drift.
To the trip. To those bright, beautiful moments that had turned bittersweet.
To Noah.
To everything that might have been but never would be.
So yeah, when I woke up from yet another Noah dream that morning, just hours before I met with Mallory, I was kind of a mess.
I was anxious. Terrified about what I might learn. But also, excited to finally take control.
And still...so damn sad. Still frustrated. Still aching over Noah.
So, I did what I always did when I needed to feel like myself again.
I cooked. And this chicken salad? It was perfectly seasoned. The bread I served beside it? Freshly baked—Gran’s recipe.
A delightful lunch for two. Not that Mom and I were talking.
Swallowing the unexpected lump in my throat, I carried the plates from the kitchen into the dining room. And without meeting Mom’s eyes, I set them down by the puzzle she’d been working on, which was still mostly just pieces.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
She studied the carefully plated food for a moment before glancing up. “You don’t have to make it so fancy, you know.”
I managed a small smile, keeping my eyes on my plate. “It’s what I do, Mom.”
That was as much as I was willing to give as I sat down across from her and picked up my fork. We ate in silence, the weight of everything unsaid filling the space between us.
This, right here, was why I didn’t come home often.
