“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Fiona picked up a stray oat, rolled it between her fingers. “I know I disappeared. After they were born. I told myself I was managing. Juggling. Keeping all the balls in the air.” She looked at Stella. “But some of those balls were people. And people notice when you stop catching them.”
Stella didn’t say anything. Kept shaping dough. Waiting.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said. “I’m sorry I stopped cooking with you. Stopped teaching you things. Stopped—” Her voice caught slightly. “Stopped seeing you.”
“Mum.”
“Let me finish. Please.” Fiona took a breath. Steadied herself. “I’ve spent my time here being angry and scared and convinced you were making a terrible mistake. And then I saw your photographs and I realized — you’re not making a mistake. You’re not running away from something. You’re running toward something. Toward people who see you.”
Stella set down the dough. Her hands were shaking slightly.
“I talked to your father,” Fiona said. “Yesterday, after seeing your art.”
Stella went very still. “About?”
“About stopping the fight.”
The kitchen was quiet. Just the hum of the oven, the distant sound of birds waking up outside.
“I’m not going to drag you home,” Fiona said. “I’m not going to make you choose. You’ve already chosen, and I need to respect that.”
Stella felt her throat tighten. Felt the thing she’d been bracing for — the conditions, the negotiations, the but what about — and realized it wasn’t coming.
“I’m going to sign the papers,” Fiona said. “The guardianship transfer. Before I leave.” Her voice was steady now. Certain. “You’re staying. With my blessing. Not because I gave up — because I finally understand.”
Stella pressed her hands flat on the counter. The way she always did when she was trying to hold herself together.
“I thought—” she started. Her voice came out wrong. Too small. “I was so scared you’d never?—”
“I know.” Fiona’s eyes were wet. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
The oven timer beeped. Neither of them moved.
Stella had imagined this moment. In the weeks since she’d decided, she’d pictured a hundred versions of it — her mother angry, her mother resigned, her mother guilt-tripping her into coming home. She’d prepared arguments. Defenses. Reasons.
She hadn’t prepared for this.
For her mother just... letting go. Choosing to let go.
“Stella.” Fiona’s voice was smaller now. Almost hesitant. “Will you come home for Christmas? To visit, I mean. Just visit. The twins miss you, and I—” She stopped. Swallowed. “I’ll miss you. I already miss you.”
Stella looked at her mother. At the tired eyes and the messy hair and the flour on her sleeve. At the woman who had flown across the world to fight for her and was now choosing not to fight at all.
“Yeah,” Stella said. “Yeah, Mum. Of course I will.”
“You don’t have to. I know you have a life here now, and I don’t want you to feel obligated?—”
“Mum.” Stella came around the counter. “I want to. I want to see the twins, and Pop’s grave, and—” She smiled, shaky. “I want you to teach me the pavlova. The good one, not the terrible one.”
Fiona laughed—a wet, surprised sound. “Pop’s pavlova was terrible.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true. Tasted like sweet cardboard.” She wiped her eyes. “But he was so proud of it.”
“Then teach me how to make a good one. And we’ll pretend it’s his recipe.”
