“Well?” she asked. “How was your date?”
I stood in the doorway, derby wristband still on my arm, pulse still humming from the night. “Fine,” I said. “I’m just tired.”
Her eyes narrowed like she didn’t believe me, but she only nodded. “You look it. Go on to bed.”
“Goodnight, Mom.”
Upstairs, I barely made it to my room before the emotions hit, a swirl of grief and wonder and something like hope.
I crawled into bed, still half-dressed, and let the exhaustion pull at me.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Ava padded in, silent and small, and slipped into bed beside me like she always did.
I wrapped an arm around her, breathed in the scent of popcorn and shampoo, and pressed a kiss to her hair.
“Hey, kiddo,” I whispered.
She murmured something incoherent, already half-asleep, and snuggled closer.
I stared into the dark, my heart full and aching, unsure of where any of this would lead, only that for the first time in a long, long while, it felt like it might actually besomewhere.
4
ELEANOR
The smell of coffee hit me before I even reached the kitchen, but it wasn’t the comforting kind. It was thestrategickind, the kind my mother brewed when she was preparing for battle.
She was already seated at the table, perfectly dressed, lipstick on, reading glasses perched halfway down her nose. In front of her sat a plate that looked like it had been styled for a cookbook full of scrambled eggs, half an orange, and a slice of whole-wheat toast cut diagonally.
Across from her, Ava glared at the plate like it was a crime scene.
“Good morning,” I said cautiously.
“Morning,” my mother said without looking up. “I thought we’d try a new breakfast routine. Structure helps children thrive.”
Ava’s fork scraped the plate. “I don’t want eggs.”
“You’ve nevertriedeggs,” my mother said, voice syrupy with patience that was about to curdle. “You might like them if you gave them a chance.”
Ava crossed her arms. “They smell like farts.”
I choked on a laugh I tried to disguise as a cough.
My mother gave me a look sharp enough to peel paint. “That’s not appropriate, young lady.”
Ava’s eyes flicked to me for backup, and my stomach tightened. “Mom,” I said, stepping closer, “we don’t have to do this right now.”
“Yes, we do,” she said briskly. “She needs to develop better eating habits. You can’t let her be so . . . particular.”
“She’s not being particular,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “She’s being Ava.”
“Which is exactly the problem,” she muttered under her breath.
Something in me snapped. Just a small thing like a thread giving way under strain.
“Mom,” I said, sharper this time. “Enough. Let her eat her cereal.”
“It’s not cereal, it’s sugar and dye,” she countered, still smiling that tight, brittle smile.
