“You’re not the one failing, Mary. He is. Always has been.”
The words hit like a balm and a knife at the same time.
I lean into her shoulder, letting the silence stretch. For once, I don’t feel like I need to fill it. She’s here. That’s enough.
After a while, she taps my knee. “You can’t live your life as proof to him, you know. Or to Evan. Or to anyone.”
I blink at her. “I’m not—”
“You are,” she says, not unkindly. “I see it in the way you fold yourself small. You bake like a dream, you talk about wanting a shop with books and music, but you never chase it. Why? Because you’re afraid of failing in front of people who don’t even show up.”
Her words sting because she’s right.
“I can’t just quit the bank,” I mutter. “I need the paycheck.”
“Paychecks keep the lights on,” she says. “But dreams keep you alive. Don’t trade one for the other forever.”
I stare at the little ceramic gnome outside the window, faded from the sun but still standing guard by her mailbox. My chest aches.
“You think I could really do it? A bakery?”
And then it hits me. The bracelet on my wrist. The watch. The expensive little shackles Anton insisted on. They can hear me. They can hear everything.
My stomach drops. I’ve never told anyone about the bakery. Not Evan. Not even Jasper.
Her hand closes over mine, firm despite the tremor.
“I think you could do anything, so long as you stop waiting for men to tell you you’re worth it.”
My throat locks up. All I can do is nod and press my forehead to hers, soaking in the only truth that’s ever mattered: her faith in me.
And then—Grrrk.
Of course. My stomach decides this is the moment to sing the song of its people.
Grandma chuckles, sharp and warm. “Sounds like somebody’s been skipping meals again.” She pushes herself up from the couch with surprising steadiness. “Come on. Let’s feed you before you waste away.”
“I’m not wasting away,” I protest, heat crawling up my neck. “I had a sandwich at work.”
She shoots me a look over her glasses. “One sad, wilted sandwich between snide comments from those women doesn’t count. You need real food.”
I groan, but follow her anyway. “So judgmental about sandwiches.”
“So judgmental about my granddaughter starving,” she corrects, already shuffling into the kitchen. “Now get in here. You can chop while I stir.”
The kitchen fills with the rhythm of us moving around each other—me slicing tomatoes while Grandma hums some old tune and stirs a pan of garlic sizzling in oil. She slides in onions, lets them soften, then tips my chopped tomatoes into the pan with a satisfied little nod.
By the time pasta is boiling and sauce thickens, the air smells like comfort itself. We carry everything to the dining table—two mismatched plates, steam rising between us, the kind of meal that tastes like memory more than recipe.
“This is perfect,” I mumble around a bite, sauce clinging to my fork.
“Of course it is,” she says, pleased. “I raised you on better food than overnight Chinese takeout.”
I roll my eyes but smile, settling into the chair that’s always been mine. Only now I notice the wobble; every time I lean forward, the leg creaks like it’s one shift away from snapping. The whole table tips a fraction when Grandma sets her glass down, and she doesn’t even flinch. She’s used to it.
“Be careful with that,” I say, tapping the tabletop. “This thing’s a death trap.”
She waves a hand like it’s nothing. “That table’s older than you are, sweetheart. Seen more Thanksgiving turkeys than a mall Santa.”
