And I realize something.
She didn’t need saving.
She just needed time. Encouragement. A little grace. The kind that isn’t loud or flashy. The kind that saysit’s okay to fall apart hereandyou don’t have to rush to be okay.
Judgment never worked. It only built walls. I see that now. All those times I wanted her to just snap out of it—to be stronger, to try harder—I was trying to help, but I wasn’t helping. Not really.
The truth is, people don’t bloom because we force them to. They bloom when they’re ready. When they feel safe enough to try.
I gather the last of the groceries—fresh bread, a jar of honey—and walk toward the little shack to pay the woman behind the counter. She smiles at me kindly, like she remembers me. Maybe she does.
When I return to the car and set the bag in the back seat, Mom looks at the bread, then up at me.
"That’s Dad’s favorite," she says quietly.
"I know."
Her fingers brush the paper bag like it’s something breakable. She doesn’t cry. For the first time, she doesn’t run. She just… stays.
She doesn’t say anything else. But I swear I see it in her eyes. Something an awful lot likethank you.
And maybe something likeI’m still here.
By the time we get home, the sun is beginning its slow descent behind the tree line. It casts long shadows across the porch as I help Mom out of the car. She grips my arm for balance, not out of weakness, but out of habit. A tether. She’s still here. She’s still trying.
Once she’s inside, she goes straight to Dad’s old recliner. The one she refused to sit in for weeks. Tonight, though, she eases into it with a soft sigh, her thin fingers wrapping around the TV remote.
Brooks is already in the kitchen when I join him. He’s slicing garlic on a cutting board, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. Something about it—about him—feels like home in a way nothing else has in a long time.
"I got zucchini," I announce, setting the farm stand bag on the counter.
He grins. "Perfect. I was just thinking about that summer pasta dish your dad used to make."
I pull out the tomatoes and hand them to him. "She sat in his chair," I murmur, nodding toward the living room.
Brooks follows my gaze and nods. "She’s doing better."
"She is," I agree, letting the warmth of that truth settle in my chest. "I think she just needed the space to fall apart."
"And someone willing to stay," he says quietly.
I look at him—reallylook—and wonder how I ever thought I could stay away.
He turns back to the cutting board and says, "Got an offer on the house."
I blink. "You did?"
"Full asking," he replies, like it’s no big deal, but his voice is soft, hopeful.
I chop the zucchini beside him. "Where are you going to live?"
He shrugs, then glances sideways. "I have some ideas."
I smirk. "Ideas, huh?"
He leans over, nudging me with his shoulder. "I’m happy you came home."
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. "Me too."
