“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind.”
“Kindness costs nothing. Sit, sit. Tyler, help me with the kettle.”
Tyler followed Margo into the kitchen, leaving Fiona perched on the edge of the living room sofa like she might need to flee at any moment.
“Well?” Margo whispered, filling the kettle. “How bad is it?”
“Bad. She thinks I’ve stolen her daughter.”
“Have you?”
“Margo.”
“I’m asking.” She set the kettle on the stove. “Stella chose to stay. That’s not theft. That’s a sixteen-year-old making a decision about her own life.”
“Fiona doesn’t see it that way.”
“No. She sees it as losing.” Margo pulled down three cups, then a fourth. “But losing and letting go are different things. She’ll figure that out.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
Margo looked at him. Her eyes were sharp, knowing.
“Then you fight for your daughter. Politely. But firmly.” She handed him the teapot. “Now go make nice. I’ll bring the scones.”
They sat in Margo’s living room—Tyler and Fiona on opposite ends of the sofa, Stella in the armchair, Margo moving between them like a benevolent referee distributing baked goods.
“These are wonderful,” Fiona said, and she sounded like she meant it. “What’s in them?”
“Lemon zest. And a bit of honey from Eleanor’s bees.” Margo settled into her chair. “Do you bake?”
“Not really. I used to, but not anymore. No time.”
“Mm. Working mother. I remember those days.” Margo sipped her tea. “What is it you do?”
“Photography. Commercial work, mostly. Product campaigns, corporate clients.” A beat. “I used to teach workshops. That’s actually how Tyler and I met.”
“Ah.” Margo’s eyes flickered to Tyler, then back. “So, Stella comes by it honestly. The eye.”
Fiona frowned and looked at Stella. “She does? I suppose.”
“Then you’ll fit right in here.” Margo gestured at Tyler. “Just like Tyler now.”
“Margo,” Tyler said.
“What? It’s true. You’ve changed.” She looked at Fiona. “Having Stella here has been good for him. For all of us.”
The room went quiet. Stella was studying her scone like it contained the secrets of the universe.
Fiona set down her cup.
“I’m not here to take her away by force,” she said. “I know that’s what you’re all thinking.”
No one contradicted her.
“I’m here because my daughter told me she’s not coming home,” she continued, her voice steady, controlled. “And before I respond to that, I needed to see for myself what she’s choosing over us.”
She looked at Stella then—really looked at her.
