“She really should eat what we eat,” she said lightly, as if she were commenting on the weather.
I pressed my palms against my thighs, forcing a small smile. “It’s fine, Mom.”
“It isn’t aboutfine, dear. She needs structure. Boundaries. You can’t let her dictate every meal?—”
“I’m not,” I said, sharper than I meant to. I swallowed, voice softening. “I’m just . . . tired.”
And I was tired of the drive, of the weight of boxes, of watching my daughter shrink under expectations she’d never fit into. I was tired of grief that clung like smoke, of pretending I knew how to start over.
My mother studied me for a long moment, the corners of her mouth twitching like she wanted to say something kind and couldn’t quite find the shape of it.
“I know, sweetheart,” she said finally. “It’s been a long year.”
Her words should’ve comforted me. Instead, they felt like a summary, too neat and small for everything that had broken.
I nodded, because it was easier than explaining. “Yeah. It has.”
I stayed at the table long enough to make it polite, pushing a few more bites of risotto around before finally giving up. My mother excused herself to check on something in the laundry room, probably to reorganize the linen closet for the third time this week, and I took the opportunity to breathe.
When I followed the faint sound of laughter into the kitchen, the tension from dinner melted a little.
Ava sat on a stool at the counter, swinging her feet, a plate with half a grilled cheese in front of her. The smell of butter and crisp bread filled the air. Belle leaned against the counter across from her, sleeves rolled up, sipping from a chipped mug that definitely didn’t belong to my mother’s pristine matching set.
Ava pointed with one hand, her other clutching the sandwich. “Is that a roller skate?” she asked, eyes wide.
Belle glanced down at her forearm, where the outline of a vintage roller skate peeked out from under her sleeve. “Sure is,” she said with a grin. “Got it after my first season with the Grimm Reapers.”
“TheGrimm Reapers?” Ava repeated, the name tasting like forbidden magic.
“Best derby team in Briar Glen,” Belle said proudly. “We knock each other down for fun.”
Ava giggled, crumbs falling onto the counter. “You fight?”
“Only on wheels,” Belle said. “And only when everyone agreed to it first. It’s like tag, but louder.”
I leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the two of them. Ava was completely at ease, shoulders loose, eyes bright. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked that way.
Belle glanced up and caught me smiling. “Hey, Mama Bear. You want a sandwich too? I promise it’s mushroom-free.”
I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’ll steal a bite of hers later.”
Ava held her plate protectively to her chest. “No, you won’t.”
Belle chuckled. “That’s fair. There’s more where that came from.”
Something in me unclenched. Like maybe we could make a home here, even if it wasn’t the one my mother imagined.
Later, when the house had gone still, and the dishes were stacked neatly away, I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed that didn’t feel like mine yet. The moonlight slanted through lace curtains, painting soft ghosts across the floor.
I liked Belle.
She was kind in a way that didn’t demand anything in return. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone spoke to me without expectation attached. There was something grounding about her.
I wished I could hold onto that feeling. Because underneath the polite smiles and lemon polish, the house hummed with my mother’s order. Every tidy drawer, every perfectly folded towel, reminded me that this wasn’t reallymyhome. It was hers. And I was a guest who’d overstayed before I’d even unpacked.
What scared me most wasn’t being back here, but rather what it might do to Ava.
She’d already been through so much. Losing Ethan had gutted both of us, but she’d gone quiet in a way that scared me. Like her voice had been packed away in one of those boxes and we’d forgotten to label it.
