“She said Mom wanted to leave,” I say quietly. “Not because she didn’t love me. Because she did.”
Mara’s shoulders sag a little at that. “Bonnie loved you more than you know,” she says. “She just didn’t know how to survive where she was.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “Did you know she was unhappy?”
Mara hesitates. Then shakes her head. “Not like that. I knew she was struggling. I didn’t know she was desperate.”
That word settles heavy between us.
“And Grandma?” I ask. “Did she ever tell you anything after?”
Mara’s mouth tightens. “No. She shut down. That’s how she coped.”
I nod. I grew up inside that coping.
“I wish I could give you more,” Mara says, softer now. “But I don’t have the missing piece you’re looking for. Andsome things… some things your grandmother kept to herself on purpose.”
Disappointment flickers through me, sharp but expected. Like touching a hot pan you already knew was hot.
“I’m not angry,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. “I just don’t like not knowing.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You always did ask too many questions.”
I smile faintly. “Someone had to.”
Mara grabs her coat, then hesitates before pulling me into a hug. It’s quick. Tight. The kind of hug that says, “I don’t know how to do this better.”
“Take care of yourself,” she murmurs. “And don’t let the past tell you who you are.”
“I won’t,” I promise, even though I’m still figuring out how.
She leaves. The door closes softly behind her.
The house exhales.
I stand there for a long moment, listening to the familiar sounds settle back into place. The refrigerator hums. The floor creaks. The bees keep working as if nothing has changed.
Mara gave me pieces.
Evelyn gave me context.
But the center of it, the thing Grandma hid, the truth she wrapped in recipes and routines, still waits somewhere just out of reach.
I sit at the table and open Grandma’s journal again. My fingers trace the margin notes, the smudged ink, the small reminders of a woman who loved fiercely and quietly.
Somewhere in here, there’s more.
I still don’t know why Evelyn told me to look at the places my grandma worked when she didn’t want to be interrupted, where she taught me patience.
I line the journals up the way Grandma used to line up her hive boxes. Oldest to newest, spines straight, no overlaps.
Then I pull my mom’s letters from the drawer and set them beside the journals in a separate pile. I’m afraid they’ll contaminate each other if I mix them too soon.
I start with the journals again, listening for tone instead of content.
Most of it is the same as always.
Hive three stronger after rain.
