Fiona flinched. Just slightly, but Margo caught it.
“I’m not telling you this to hurt you,” Margo saidgently. “I’m telling you because I understand. More than you might think.”
“How can you understand?” Fiona’s voice was rising again, the armor trying to reassemble. “Your daughter left you. Chose to leave, and kept leaving. My daughter is leaving me for—” She stopped. Pressed her lips together.
“For what?”
“For this. For here. For a family she barely knows.” The words came out bitter, sharp-edged. “For a father who got to be the fun one, the vacation parent, while I did everything alone.”
“Did you want him there?”
The question landed like a stone in still water.
“What?”
“Tyler.” Margo kept her voice even. “He told me about the arrangement. The rules you set. No telling his family. Limited visits. Everything on your terms.”
“He agreed to those terms.”
“He was young and terrified of losing his daughter entirely.” Margo met her eyes. “What choice did he have?”
Fiona’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Margo thought she might leave—push back from the table and retreat to the guest room, conversation over.
“I was scared too,” Fiona said finally, her voice quieter now. “I was pregnant and alone. Tyler was—he was so young. And I knew if his family got involved, ifthey started having opinions, I’d lose control completely.”
“So you kept control.”
“I kept Stella safe.”
“You did.” Margo nodded. “You raised a remarkable young woman. Strong. Thoughtful. Brave enough to know what she wants and ask for it.”
“Brave enough to leave me.”
“Brave enough to choose. There’s a difference.”
Fiona’s eyes filled. This time she didn’t fight it.
“I held on so tight,” she whispered. “Because I was afraid of exactly this.”
“I know.” Margo’s own eyes were wet now too. Two mothers, sitting in a kitchen at three in the morning, both crying for daughters who needed something they couldn’t give. “I held tight to Sam too. And she left anyway. But the ones I gave room to breathe—Tyler, Meg, Anna—they came back. They stayed.”
Fiona reached across the table. Took Margo’s hand.
They sat like that for a long moment. Not speaking. Just holding on.
“You think I’m pushing her away,” Fiona said finally. “By fighting this.”
“I think you’re grieving. And grief makes us grip harder.” Margo squeezed her hand, didn’t let go. “But Stella isn’t leaving you, Fiona. She’s just... expanding. Making room for more people to love her. That doesn’t mean less room for you.”
Fiona stared at the table. The kitchen was very quiet.
They sat in silence, hands still linked, drinking tea that had gone lukewarm. The clock on the wall ticked softly. Three-twelve AM now. The night felt both endless and almost over.
“Thank you,” Fiona said finally. “For telling me about Sam. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“Easier now that I’m eighty. You stop protecting old wounds. They’re just part of the story.” Margo released her hand gently, stood, collecting the cups. “Try to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.”
Fiona almost smiled. Almost.
