“Emotional crisis then pie,” Bea said. “Classic Walsh move.”
“The pie is part of the emotional processing,” Anna said.
“That’s not scientifically accurate,” Stella said.
“It’s emotionally accurate. Which is better.”
They filed out of the studio, voices overlapping, the heaviness of the moment already shifting into something lighter. That was family too—the way grief and joy could exist in the same breath, the way tears could lead to laughter and laughter could lead to pie.
Margo lingered for a moment, alone with her painting.
Sam looked through the window at the family she’d left behind. At the granddaughter she’d never met. At the future she’d missed.
“They’re okay,” Margo told her daughter’s image. “We’re all okay. No thanks to you, but also...” Shetouched the canvas gently, fingers brushing the edge of Sam’s painted form. “Also because of you. Because you taught us what we didn’t want to become. Because your leaving made us hold tighter to each other.”
The painting didn’t answer. Paintings never did.
“We love you,” Margo said. “We always will. Even when you’re not here. Even when you can’t stay.”
Then she turned off the light and went to join her family for pie.
EPILOGUE
Two weeks later, Stella still wasn’t used to the light.
California light was different from Sydney light—softer somehow, more golden. She noticed it every morning when she walked to school, every afternoon when she walked to the Shack, every evening when she climbed onto Tyler’s roof to watch it disappear into the Pacific.
She noticed it now, streaming through the Shack’s windows, catching the shell ceiling and scattering into a thousand tiny rainbows.
“You’re staring at the ceiling again,” Bea said from across the booth.
“I’m appreciating the ceiling.”
“You appreciate it every day.”
“It’s a very appreciable ceiling.”
Bea rolled her eyes and returned to her calculushomework. They’d claimed the booth by the window—their booth now, by unspoken agreement. Close enough to hear the kitchen and be available if needed, far enough to pretend they were studying.
The Shack hummed with late-afternoon energy. Not crowded, not empty. Just right.
Anna stood behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine. She’d settled into the anchor role like she’d been born to it—still Anna, still prone to artistic descriptions and unnecessary hand gestures, but steadier now. Grounded.
“Order up,” she called, sliding a plate across the counter.
Joey materialized to collect it. His school schedule meant reduced hours, but “reduced” for Joey still meant more shifts than most full-time employees.
“Table four?” he confirmed.
“Table four. And Mrs. Blake wants extra pickles again.”
“She’s allergic to pickles.”
“I know. Bring them anyway. It’s her process.”
Joey delivered the plate, detoured past Stella and Bea’s booth to straighten their napkins—a reflex he couldn’t seem to break—and disappeared back into the kitchen.
“He’s been here more than he’s been at school,” Bea observed.
