She hesitates at the door, fingers tightening around the handle. For a second, I think she might turn back, say something different. She doesn’t. The door closes behind her with a soft click.
For a long time I stay where I am, the house suddenly too quiet. The table still set. The flowers still perfect. The candles burned down to stubs. I set the ring box on the mantel and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
The frustration burns hot in my chest, mixing with the hurt, with the fear that maybe she’ll never be ready. That no matter how much I show up, how patient I am, how much I love her, it won’t matter. Because she’s still running from something I can’t fight. If love and showing up aren’t enough to make her feel safe, what is?
thirty-two
. . .
Natalie
My mom’shouse smells like coffee and cinnamon rolls.
It’s been eight days since Jake proposed. Eight days since I walked out of his house and left him standing there with a ring box in his hand and devastation written across his face.
Eight days of silence.
No texts. No calls. No showing up at my door with groceries or takeout or that stupidly perfect smile that always made my defenses crack just a little.
Nothing.
I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time since that night. My bed feels too big, too empty, too cold without him taking up half the space and pulling me against his chest in the middle of the night. I keep reaching for him in my sleep, my hand finding only empty sheets and the sharp reminder that I did this. I chose this.
And I’m miserable.
I sit at her kitchen table, the same one at which I ate breakfast growing up, and watch her move around thekitchen with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. I came here because I didn’t know where else to go. Because my house felt suffocating and I needed someone to tell me I’m not ruining my life.
“You want another one?” she asks, gesturing to the cinnamon roll on my plate.
“I shouldn’t. I’ve already had two.”
“You’re eating for two.”
“That’s a myth, Mom. I’m supposed to eat like three hundred extra calories a day, not double everything.”
She sits down across from me with her coffee, giving me that look mothers perfect over decades of practice. “You look tired.”
“I haven’t been sleeping.”
“Why not?”
I press my hand to my belly, feeling the baby shift beneath my palm. “She moves a lot at night. Keeps me up.”
It’s not entirely a lie. The baby does move at night. But that’s not why I can’t sleep.
I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see Jake’s face. The way he looked at me when I said I needed space. The hurt he tried to hide. The ring box closing with that quiet snap that sounded like an ending.
“That’s not what I mean,” she says gently.
I take a sip of my decaf tea, avoiding her eyes. “Work’s been intense. We finished breaking all season one episodes last week. It’s the mad rush before our deadline.”
“That’s exciting.”
“It’s surreal to see it all come together. Like, these werejust ideas in my head a year ago, and now we’re about to have eight full scripts ready to shoot.”
“I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
