They sat in silence. The clock ticked. Steam rose from the cups.
“He ambushed me,” Fiona said finally, her voice flat. “Tyler. Came in like he had every right. Said things—” She stopped. Pressed her lips together.
“I heard part of your conversation with Stella. Sounded difficult. These walls aren’t as thick as you’d think.”
Fiona’s laugh was hollow. “Difficult. That’s one word for it.” She stared into her tea. “She told me I kept Tyler away to protect myself. Not her. Myself.”
Margo said nothing. Waited.
“And then he came in and said—” Fiona’s voice cracked slightly. She cleared her throat, controlled it. “He said I did what felt safe. For me. Like I was selfish. Like everything I did for sixteen years was selfish.”
“Was it?”
Fiona’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“I’m asking.” Margo kept her voice gentle. “Not accusing. Asking.”
“I kept her safe. I gave her stability. A home. A life.” The words came out sharp, defensive. “I did everything alone. Everything. And now I’m the villain because shewants to stay with the father who showed up when it was easy?”
“Is that what you think? That it’s been easy for Tyler?”
“Easier than it was for me.”
Margo sipped her chamomile. Let the silence stretch.
“Can I tell you something?” she said finally. “About my daughter?”
Fiona looked up warily. “Tyler’s mother?”
“Yes.” Margo turned her cup in her hands, watching the tea swirl. “She left too. Not at sixteen—she waited until she was twenty-two, finished art school. But she left. And she kept leaving.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’d come back for a while. A few months, sometimes a year. She’d help at the Shack, reconnect with her children, make us all believe she was staying. And then she’d get restless. Some artist residency in New Mexico. A gallery showing in New York. A man in Paris who understood her work.” Margo’s voice caught slightly. She cleared her throat. “There was always something pulling her away.”
Fiona was quiet now. Listening.
“It was agony.” The word came out rougher than Margo intended. Her eyes stung, and she didn’t try to hide it. “I spent years being angry. Then I spent years being sad. Then I spent years trying to understand.”
Fiona stared at her. Something shifted in her face—surprise, maybe, at seeing Margo’s composure crack.
“Did you? Understand?”
“Some of it.” Margo blinked, felt the wetness on her lashes. Didn’t wipe it away. “She was running toward something. Her art. Her freedom. Whatever she thought she’d find out there that she couldn’t find here. I don’t think she ever found it. But she never stopped looking.”
A car passed on the street outside, headlights briefly sweeping across the window.
“Where is she now?”
“Portugal, last I heard. She sends postcards sometimes. Texted on my birthday.” Margo’s laugh was soft, wet at the edges. “We’ve made a kind of peace. Not the relationship I wanted, but a real one. Honest, at least.”
“And Tyler? How did he handle it?”
“Surviving a mother who kept leaving?” Margo shook her head slowly. “Not easily. Tyler ran away in his own way—different cities, different countries, always with a camera between him and the world. Meg went the opposite direction. Built systems, made plans, tried to control everything because she couldn’t control her mother staying.”
“And now Tyler’s here. Putting down roots.”
“For Stella. She gave him a reason to stay.”
