“Privacy?” she said gently, pulling off one glove. “You look like you could use it. Or a stiff drink.”
That almost made me laugh, the kind that breaks on the way out. “My mother just enrolled my kid in a school I told her not to.”
Belle sat back on her heels, eyebrows lifting. “Shewhat?”
“St. Agatha’s. She called the headmistress. Pulled strings. Acted like I should be grateful.”
“Wow.” Belle whistled softly. “She doesn’t do subtle, does she?”
I shook my head, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh escaping before I could stop it. “I just . . . I’m so tired. I’m trying to hold it together, to be the good daughter and the good mom, and I keep feeling like I’m failing both.”
Belle stood, peeled off her other glove, and crossed the room. She didn’t reach for me right away, just stood beside me, close enough that her presence felt like solid ground.
“You’re not failing,” she said finally. “You’re just doing it alone.”
I blinked hard, but the tears still came, slow and hot and impossible to stop.
Belle handed me a roll of paper towels from the counter. “Sorry, I don’t have tissues.”
That made me laugh for real, even through the tears. “Paper towels work.”
She leaned against the counter, watching me with that steady, unflinching gaze that made it impossible to hide. “You know,” she said after a beat, “If you don’t have plans, you should come to the next roller derby bout. You look like someone who needs a place to scream without apologizing for it.”
I sniffed, managing a weak smile. “Do people really scream at those things?”
“Constantly,” she said. “And sometimes we hit people, too.”
That earned a watery laugh. “Tempting.”
Belle grinned. “Then come. No pressure. Just . . . come see what it’s like.”
I nodded, wiping at my cheeks. “Okay.”
When she was gone, I stood there alone, surrounded by the faint smell of bleach and the sound of my heartbeat finally slowing down.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I did.
Dinner was quiet that night. Too quiet.
The clinking of silverware on china filled the spaces where conversation should have lived. My mother asked about the school visit once, in the clipped tone of someone pretending to make small talk, and I answered in the shortest possible syllables.
Ava kept her eyes on her plate, eating mechanically, the way she did when the air felt heavy. Even Belle’s chicken and roasted carrots couldn’t thaw the tension.
When the meal was over, my mother stacked her napkin perfectly on the table and smiled like nothing was wrong.
By the time I’d showered and crawled under the covers, exhaustion had turned into a physical ache. I turned off the lamp and stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the house settling.
The door creaked open a few minutes later.
Ava padded across the room, her pajamas soft and mismatched, hair mussed from sleep she hadn’t quite found yet. Without a word, she climbed into bed beside me, curling up close the way she had every night since Ethan died.
I smoothed her hair back from her face. “Couldn’t sleep?”
She shook her head, voice small and careful. “Is Grandma mad at me?”
My throat tightened instantly. “Oh, baby. No.”
“She looked mad.”
