Ava hesitated, then gave a tiny nod.
As they walked back to class, I felt Ms. Leighton glance back at me, the kind of look that saidwe’ve got her.
Darlene met me in the hallway on my way out, offering a cup of lukewarm coffee and a kind smile. “Rough starts happen,” she said. “Doesn’t mean it won’t get better.”
“I hope so,” I said, wrapping both hands around the cup like it might hold the answer.
“Trust me,” she said. “It always does.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed her. But as I stepped outside into the sunlight, I realized that for the first time in a long while, hope didn’t feel impossible. Just . . . fragile.
And that was enough for now.
Dinner that nightwas every bit as uncomfortable as I’d expected.
My mother sat at the head of the table, posture perfect, napkin folded just so. She waited until Belle set down the roast before speaking, her tone deceptively casual.
“So,” she said, slicing her portion with surgical precision. “How was the public school?”
I kept my voice even. “It went well.”
“Well?” she repeated, one eyebrow lifting like a seesaw. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It was welcoming,” I said carefully. “The staff was great, and Ava seemed comfortable.”
My mother gave a polite laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Comfortable isn’t the same as prepared, Eleanor. Those schools—well, I’m sure they do their best with the limited resources they have.”
I stabbed at my lettuce a little too hard.
Her expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. “If you’d let St. Agatha’s?—”
“Mom,” I said sharply. “Please. Not tonight.”
She sniffed, cutting another perfect bite. “I only want what’s best for her.”
“So do I,” I whispered.
For the rest of the meal, the only sounds were the clinking of silverware. Ava ate quickly and quietly, eyes fixed on her plate, then excused herself without prompting.
When the last dish was washed, and the house had gone still, I stood by the kitchen window, watching the porch light spill over the garden.
Belle had gone home. My mother was in her sitting room, no doubt polishing her righteousness with a glass of pinot. Upstairs, Ava hummed faintly through her headphones, the sound thin but steady.
I pressed my palms against the counter, trying to breathe past the weight in my chest.
I couldn’t do this forever.
I couldn’t keep coming home to a house that wasn’t mine, living under rules that didn’t fit, walking the line between gratitude and resentment.
We needed our own space, somewhere small, messy, ours.
But every time I opened my banking app, the numbers glared back, cold and unforgiving. Even the cheapest apartments in Briar Glen were out of reach.
Still, I couldn’t stop imagining it, a place with chipped paint and secondhand furniture, a lock that was mine, a bedroom where Ava could hang her spooky drawings without anyone sighing about “appropriate decor.”
A home built out of chaos and love instead of control and silence.
I didn’t know how I’d make it happen.
