"I don’t know about this, Elowen," Mom murmurs, arms crossed on the porch rail like it might be the only thing keeping her upright. "I think it’s too soon."
I step closer, careful not to spook her. "Mom, it’s ten minutes down the road. That’s it. I’ll stop at the farm stand, and grab a few things. You don’t even have to get out of the car if you’re not ready."
She worries the edge of her thumbnail with her teeth, eyes flicking toward the driveway where my new car waits, engine ticking in the warm afternoon sun.
Steps.
Small ones.
But they count.
It’s been two months since Dad died. A month since I came home. Everything still feels off-kilter, like the world’s been tilted a few degrees and we’re all just now learning how to walk on that new angle.
But she’s trying. For me. For Jasper.
For herself, even if she won’t admit it.
"I’ll sit in the car," she finally says, voice small. "But no grocery store. I can’t do the grocery store yet."
"Deal," I say softly, and reach for her hand, not to pull, just to let her know I’m here if she wants the contact.
She takes it.
The drive is slow, careful. I keep one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift, glancing over every so often to make sure Mom is still with me,reallywith me.
She doesn’t say much at first. Just looks out the window, her eyes following the blur of oak trees, the old fence lines, the quiet pastures we’ve driven past a thousand times. But today, she’s seeing them differently. Like someone returning from a long winter, blinking at spring.
When we turn onto Sycamore Road, she stiffens slightly in her seat. I know why.
We pass the small white house. Brooks’ house. Paint still peeling. Roof still sagging a little at the eaves like it’s tired. But now there’s a bright red For Sale sign staked in the yard.
Mom leans forward a little, squinting at it. "Is Brooks selling the house?"
I nod, fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel. "Yeah. He made the decision a few days ago."
A long pause.
"Where’s he going to live?" she asks, voice soft but steady.
I glance at her, then back to the road, and can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth.
"He has plans," I say.
For so long, Brooks didn’t talk about plans. He talked about obligations. He talked about what someone else needed. Who needed groceries. Who needed a ride. Who needed backup. Hearing myself say it out loud—He has plans—makes something in my chest loosen. Because plans mean future. And future means he’s not drowning here just to keep the rest of us floating.
Mom brow furrows at first, like she wants more, but then she catches the smirk. Her expression softens, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.
We don’t say anything else for a while. The silence feels... full. Not empty this time. Like maybe the world isn’t ending after all. Maybe it's just beginning again, in smaller ways.
The old farm stand sits just past the bend in the road, the one lined with sunflowers this time of year. I pull in beside a crooked wooden sign that reads "Fresh Produce, Cash Only" in peeling paint.
"I’ll be right back," I tell Mom gently as I unbuckle.
She nods, staring out at the fields like they might swallow her whole. But she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. That alone feels like progress.
I step out into the warmth of late afternoon, the scent of dirt and tomatoes thick in the air. A wicker basket waits at the stand’s edge, so I pick it up and start filling it—heirloom tomatoes, sweet corn, zucchini. A few peaches, just soft enough to bruise with the wrong kind of handling.
As I sort through the greens, I glance back at the car. She’s still there, arms folded loosely over her chest, her face turned toward the breeze slipping in through the open window. She looks smaller somehow, but also sturdier.
