I let the silence stretch. The refrigerator hummed steadily. A wind gust rattled the window above the sink. From the living room, a cartoon character squeaked with exaggerated joy, painfully out of place.
“They trusted him,” I said finally, even though the words felt weird in my mouth. I didn’t know if I believed them. Or maybe I didn’t want to peel back the layers of what Jenny might have been thinking. Why she wrote his name instead of someone more consistent, more present.
Emma exhaled shakily. “We just don’t think he’s ready to raise a child alone. We’re not calling him irresponsible, we’re just…” Her voice thinned. “Just not the person we expected.”
I nodded. That part was easy to understand. Ethan had never been the steady one, not like Matt. Not like most people Jenny leaned on.
“But,” Bill said, shoulders dropping, “we want to respect their wishes. So, we’ll wait, for him to come, hear what he says.”
I swallowed against the ache behind my sternum. “That’s all we can do.”
Emma reached for my arm, her hand warm and tired and characteristically gentle. “Thank you for coming, dear. You’ve been here every moment. I don’t know how we’d manage without you.”
I forced a small, soft smile. I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t managing either. That every hour felt like walking across ice that kept cracking under my feet.
I just squeezed her hand back and looked toward the living room.
Lily sat small beneath the oversized blanket, a child holding up the weight of a world that shouldn’t have asked this of her.
Somewhere out there, Ethan, whoever he was now, whatever version of himself he’d become, was about to inherit the shattered pieces of a little girl’s life.
And all we could do was wait.
COMING HOME
Chapter 7
Ethan
The sign appeared around a bend in the road, hand-painted, cracked down the middle, its blue paint faded to a ghostly gray.
Welcome to Maplewood. Where the Lake Shines Brighter.
The words blurred as rain began to fall, thin and cold against the windshield.
I flicked on the wipers. They squeaked with the steady rhythm of something both familiar and unwelcome. I’d driven this road a hundred times before, summers, holidays, the night I’d left and told myself I wasn’t coming back.
But it was different now. The trees leaned closer, the air heavier, the silence sharper.
I’d spent the last ten days off-grid, living on coffee, trail mix, and the hum of wind through pine. When I finally turned my phone back on yesterday morning, I was greeted by a handful of bars and a storm of missed calls.
I didn’t listen to them. Just read the text that sat like a gunshot on the screen.
Ethan, it's about Matt and Jenny. Please call me. It's urgent. - mom
I’d read it twice before I understood the words.
Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I was back in the town I’d spent a decade avoiding, wearing a suit and a heart that didn’t fit.
I stood, feeling every inch of the distance between what I should say and what I could.
The sound of rain grew heavier outside, a steady percussion against the old windows.
???
The Walker farmhouse appeared through the curtain of rain like an old photograph, washed out around the edges, familiar enough to ache.
The porch light was already on. It had always been on when I was late coming home. Some things, apparently, didn’t change.
