It’s comforting and simple.
When dismissal finally hits and the last kid waves goodbye, I exhale softly. I survived the day without crying. That’s something.
As I walk to my car, my phone buzzes.
Mom: Thrift store just opened today! Want to go peek with me?
I smile before I can help it. The new thrift store is all anyone has been talking about—half antiques, half boutique.
Me: Yes!
By the time I pull into the little downtown lot, Mom is already there, waving at me like she hasn’t seen me in years, though it’s probably only been two weeks. I stopped for dinner one night when Mason worked late.
Inside, the thrift store smells like lavender and old books, which is a combination I didn’t know I needed. Wooden shelves line the walls, filled with mismatched mugs and quirky pottery. Mom gravitates toward a display of antique glassware and I follow.
“Oh, look at these!” she whispers like we’re in a museum. “Aren’t they dainty?”
“They look like something straight out of Grandma’s house.”
“Exactly! That’s why I like them.”
I wander to a rack of cozy knit cardigans, running my fingers along the sleeves. A soft gray one catches my eye—simple, warm, something I could wear on a quiet day at home or with a skirt for church or school.
“You should get that,” Mom says over my shoulder.
I check the price. “For only eight dollars, I am.”
She laughs and sets it in the basket for me.
She then gets distracted by a lamp shaped like a goose wearing a bonnet.
“Mom,” I whisper, laughing. “Please don’t buy that.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely buying it,” she says. “Your father will hate it.”
We both laugh and spend another twenty minutes browsing—her touching everything, me finding the most random things I absolutely need. A spoon rest shaped like a heart, a picture frame, candleholders, a bread box, and my favorite of all, a yellow-and-pink cake stand.
By the time we’re walking back to our cars, I feel…lighter. I needed the distraction to breathe again. And maybe a front seat full of thrifted treasures is exactly the kind of therapy I needed.
* * *
A few minutes later, Mason’s truck pulls in. My stomach tightens, not in excitement, but in defense. I’m not ready to talk, not ready to unravel, not ready to say,“Hey, number ten is negative. Surprise!”
He steps inside quietly.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.” I keep my back to him, focusing on peeling a price sticker off the spoon rest.
“How was your day?”
“Good.”
He exhales long enough that I look up and I wait.
“Addison had Weston today.”
I go still.
