1
ELEANOR
The van rattled like it was protesting the move as much as I was. Boxes pressed against the windows, a leaning tower of “new beginnings” stacked between me and the rearview mirror. Ava sat in the passenger seat with her headphones on, staring out at the long driveway like it was a portal to another world. One she didn’t ask to enter.
“It’s only for a little while,” I said, my voice doing that bright, brittle thing it did when I was lying to both of us. “Grandma’s house will be . . . fine.”
Ava didn’t answer, but her fingers drummed against her thigh in a steady rhythm, her way of counting breaths, I think. I followed the beat, trying to sync my heart to hers.
The house appeared through the trees exactly as I remembered it. It was too big, too neat, the kind of place where even the grass seemed to mind its manners. My chest tightened. I used to dream of getting out of this place. Now I was pulling back in, dragging grief and cardboard boxes behind me like a shame parade.
“It’ll be okay,” I whispered, shifting into park.
Ava finally looked at me. “Will it?” she asked.
I wanted to promise her yes. That we’d unpack, and heal, and find something like peace. But I’d learned promises were fragile things, and I was already surrounded by broken ones.
So instead I smiled, thin and hopeful. “We’ll make it okay.”
The screen door creaked open before I even killed the engine.
Of course, she was waiting. My mother stood on the porch like a general inspecting troops, perfectly pressed slacks, soft pink sweater, hair still refusing to gray. From here, I couldn’t tell if she was smiling or bracing herself.
“Home sweet home,” I murmured, mostly to Ava, though my voice wobbled onhome.
When we stepped out, my mother descended the porch steps, arms wide. “Eleanor! Oh, sweetheart, you look exhausted. And Ava, my goodness, you’ve gotten so tall.”
Her hug smelled like vanilla and control. I let her hold me. Her hand skimmed my arm in that appraising way that made me want to hide under one of the moving blankets.
“I baked cookies,” she said, as if that erased the years of silence between us. “Chocolate chip. Are those still your favorite?”
Ava’s headphones stayed firmly in place. Her gaze darted to the front window, then the hydrangeas, then back to her shoes. My mom crouched down just enough to be eye-level, voice dipping into that sing-song tone people use when they don’t know what to do with kids like mine.
“Sweetheart, you can take those off now. Grandma wants to say hello properly.”
Ava clamped her hands over the headphones like armor. “No, thank you.”
For a heartbeat, the air froze between us. Her disapproval was sharp enough to taste. Then she smoothed her expression, straightened, and gestured toward the door. “Of course. Let’s get you two settled.”
Inside, the smell of cookies and lemon polish hit me like a memory bomb. Everything gleamed. Even the couch pillows were aligned like obedient soldiers.
I tried to focus on the warmth, on the cookies cooling on a tray. “It smells amazing, Mom.”
“Thank you, dear.” She brushed an invisible speck of flour from her sweater. “Hector and Belle should be bringing in your boxes any minute.”
I blinked. “That’s not their job?”
She waved a manicured hand, all gracious dismissal. “Nonsense. They insisted on helping.”
“Pretty suretheydidn’t insist,” I muttered, already heading for the door.
Outside, a tall man in work gloves, Hector, the gardener, I vaguely remembered from summers past, was carrying a box markedKitchen. Beside him, a woman in a faded plain purple polo with a tattoo peeking out carried another box.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, rushing toward them. “You don’t have to do this. I can?—”
The woman grinned, her dark curls escaping a messy bun. “You’re Eleanor, right? Don’t worry about it. Your mom bribed us with chocolate chip cookies. I’m Belle.”
Her handshake was warm and confident, her smile unbothered by my awkwardness. There was something about her energy. She was steady and unpretentious. She was a breath of fresh air.
