“That’s not...”
“Please,” she interrupts gently. “Let him do this. It really is important to him.”
Her eyes are pleading, and the look she is giving me makes my lower lip wobble.
Emily keeps unloading groceries like she’s afraid they’ll vanish if she stops.
Mom sits at the table, watching me.
Quietly.
Intently.
I busy myself with the kettle. With mugs. With anything that keeps my hands occupied.
Emily leans in close. “This is not nothing,” she whispers. “This is… real... thoughtful.”
I swallow.
When I bring Mom her tea and sourdough toast, she takes it carefully, studying me over the rim of her mug.
“Who is Mr. North?” she asks, her voice thin.
Emily grins. “Tall. Rich. Emotionally constipated. Clearly into Lucy.”
“Emily,” I warn.
I swear I hear a sound that resembles a choked laugh coming from Claire.
“What?” she says. “He sends groceries. That’s courtship in this economy.”
Mom smiles faintly. “Does he make you happy?”
The question feels heavier than it should.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
Claire watches the exchange with quiet respect.
“Please let us know if you need anything else,” she says. She steps up beside me and places a gentle hand on my arm. “Anything, Lucy. He wants to help.”
When she leaves, the apartment feels fuller than it has in years.
And somehow emptier.
I stand in the kitchen, surrounded by abundance I didn’t ask for, didn’t earn, didn’t plan for.
Emily bumps my shoulder. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
“I might be,” I admit.
“Because you feel like you’re being bought?” she asks gently.
“Or because someone noticed I was drowning and threw me a lifeline,” I whisper.
I don’t know which scares me more.
I stare at the counter, at the care laid out so neatly it feels intentional.
