She presses send. The lie hangs heavy in her chest. Why is she pretending? Acting as if everything’s fine? Like she’s in control? Grace doesn’t want to be this person. Overpromising. Underdelivering. Adrift, both creatively and personally. A woman who’s stuck.
Outside, a car door slams.
“Shoot,” she mumbles, as if whispering might make them—this whole situation—go away. “They’re early.” A minute passes. The thud of her heart blends with the sound of their voices. She leans across her desk to look. Beyond the window, the white moving truck is parked in the driveway next to Birdie’s old green Jeep. “Great.” A sigh—long and sad, like the final balloon deflated at the conclusion of a party no one wanted to end. “So this is really happening.”
She rises slowly. Her limbs feel like lead. As she moves toward the door to go change out of her pajamas, her gaze drifts to a framed photograph on a bookshelf. Birdie. Early thirties. Standing on the sandy crest of a dune. A straw bucket hat and classic one-piece. Her long hair, which had just begun to turn from blond to a premature gray, blowing in the breeze. Three-year-old Grace expertly perched on her hip. They’re both smiling.
The doorbell rings.
Grace turns. A glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror catches her off guard. The person in the reflection—messy, visibly tired, her brightness dulled—hardly resembles her. She looks like someone who wandered off the set of her own story and then got lost on her way back.
“Oh, one other thing,” Grace says out loud. “I miss you, Mom. Even more than I can describe.” She glances over her shoulder, like someone might be there. Waiting. Listening. Ready to offer advice. “I don’t even know who I am anymore without you here,” she says.
For a long moment, she waits—breath held—as if an answer will arrive.
There’s only quiet.
Finally, Grace pulls in an inhalation, even though it doesn’t change anything.
Then, not wanting to face this day but knowing she doesn’t have a choice, she takes a step forward. Into a future she never planned. Toward a life she didn’t choose.
Unsure what comes next, she leaves the room.
Two
The house, like everything else, is a mess.
For the last hour, Grace has stood at the kitchen island, unable to move. Her eyes remain fixed on the steady procession of boxes being carried through her front door. Three hulking strangers, their shirts damp, continue to file in and out, hauling the contents of their moving truck inside. Silently, they stack the cardboard cubes against the living room wall. Birdie’s boxes. The last of them. Her final possessions, now here in her daughter’s home, because she is gone.
“Good morning.”
Adam steps past the movers and through the doorframe, holding a to-go beverage tray. He wears shorts and a T-shirt, a departure from his usual work attire—button-downs, golf shirts, khakis. Clothes that suggest he’s reliable. Dependable. Trustworthy. Professionally, at least.
Grace’s throat tightens. “Hi,” she says, surprised to see him—Adam, her husband of more than five years—standing in the entryway. “I didn’t know you were stopping by.” Her voice is level, stripped of the sharp edges that shaped it earlier this summer. She’s out of energy for arguments. Questions. Verbal explosions. All that remains are facts. “What are you doing here?” She sets down the dry toast she was nibbling. Her almost ex-husband. Her mother’s last belongings. The sights in this space are too unsettling for her to eat.
“I brought you an iced coffee.” He lifts a cup from the carrier and smiles in his easy, charming way—the one that once made Grace feellike happy endings were real, achievable things. “Figured you’d need it. I remembered you said the movers were bringing your mother’s things today.”
If you remembered, then why didn’t you offer to be here in the first place?she thinks.
“And,” he adds, shifting on his feet, “I need to grab a few more things from upstairs.”
The truth.
He hesitates, unsure if he should enter this space that was once theirs. Stillistheirs, at least in some lingering, legal way. Finally, he moves inside, hands her the drink like it’s an olive branch. As if a beverage could fix all that he’s broken. All the ways that life has gone wrong.
She accepts it anyway and sees it’s not right. Black. Likely bitter. She digs deep, summons a happy face. It’s like slipping on a sweater from her childhood; try as she might, the expression no longer fits. “Thanks.”
“I forgot your coconut milk,” Adam notes, following her gaze. It’s a small, silly indulgence, but still, it’s one she likes. The old Adam—the one who’d memorized how she preferred her tea (splash of cream), which blanket she needed to sleep with (the weighted one), and how she liked her sandwiches (no condiments)—wouldn’t have forgotten. “I should also mention that it’s decaf.” He shrugs. “Sorry. Old habits, I guess.”
Nine years earlier, when their story was still on its opening pages, Adam remembered everything. Important dates. Her favorite flowers. At some point, that all changed. Lately, Grace has tried to pinpoint the moment. A square on the calendar. A specific exchange. But she can’t. All she’s concluded is that one day, they were solid—the future they believed they were carving out together a few smooth paces ahead. The next? The picture they had in mind was erased, like someone giving an Etch A Sketch a good, firm shake.
They met at twenty-nine while living in Manhattan. One autumn night, while getting dressed for a colleague’s wedding, Grace had a meltdown on the phone with Birdie. About her job. (I don’t even like what I’m doing.) About her recently finished novel. (I haven’t heard back froma single agent.) About New York. (I feel so claustrophobic here some days.) About an ex she missed. (Did I make a mistake?) Like always, Birdie talked her through it (It’ll come together, Cece. Just look for the signs.), then encouraged her to put on something sparkly to lift her mood.
Forty minutes later, dressed in a sequined shift, Grace dashed through the hotel lobby, racing to catch the elevator up to the rooftop reception. Nothing about the ride was out of the ordinary—not until the small brass box jolted to a stop.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” the tuxedo-clad stranger beside her said. “I like your dress, by the way,” he added, his eyes straight ahead. “Shiny.”
They talked. Adam was nice. Charming. He was from Massachusetts and undeniably attractive—blue eyes, broad shoulders. He worked for an insurance company in Midtown. (“I help people prepare for a secure future,” he joked. “I’m like a fortune teller, only with a 401K.”) He was a grown-up in a way her ex had never been. Grace liked that.
