It's not just a house. It's a fuckingfeeling.
The kitchen is straight out of some cottage-core Instagram feed, except nothing about it feels staged. A cast iron skillet hangs on the wall next to an arrangement of wooden spoons worn smooth with use. Copper pots dangle from a rack over a center island where a bowl of actual fresh-picked apples sits. Not the waxed, perfectly identical ones from high-end grocers—real apples with imperfections and character, with stems still attached and occasional leaf clinging to the skin. The whole room smells of cinnamon and yeast and something deeper—the scent of meals cooked with intention rather than obligation.
"This is..." I start, but I can't find the right words. My vocabulary fails me completely.
"A mess?" June laughs, putting on her apron—not a decorative one, but a well-worn canvas thing with pockets and stains that tell stories. "I know it's not what you're used to. Nothing like those marble countertops I've seen in your mother's kitchen posts."
She suddenly looks self-conscious, glancing around her own kitchen like she's seeing it through my eyes—through the lens of someone whose breakfast nooks have been featured in Architectural Digest. I realize with a start that she's nervous—about what I think. About me. Savannah Ashby. The Instagram princess standing in her flour-dusted domain.
"No, it's beautiful," I say, meaning it more than I've meant almost anything in years. "It feels real." The word catches in my throat because that's exactly what it is—real in a way my entire childhood never was.
June's face softens, crow's feet crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "You know, I've looked at your pictures on Instagram for... well, since you were very small."
She busies herself pulling ingredients from the refrigerator—eggs that still have bits of straw clinging to the shells, butter in a ceramic dish rather than wrapped in foil.
“I'm twelve years older than you, so I even remember the day your mother started the account. She was posting dozens of pictures a day—that was back before reels and stories, when filters were new and exciting, when a single Valencia-tinted snapshot could transport someone from their cramped apartment into a world of prairie sunsets and designer children's clothes. I was completely addicted to your life, checking for updates between feeding my babies and hanging laundry, wondering what magical childhood moment Eleanor had staged for you that day.”
I don't know what to say. Of course, I've met many people over the years who say similar things. But they were strangers in meet-and-greet lines or PR events, not a biker's wife with flour on her cheek and a family farm so authentic and desirable, it makes my chest hurt with wanting.
Not someone who could probably recreate my childhood better than I lived it.
"Your playhouse was custom-built, wasn't it? All wood, one-of-a-kind," June continues while chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency, her knife moving in a blur that speaks of years of feeding hungry mouths. "It was filled with theseexquisite sets of real china, delicate teapots with hand-painted flowers, and that miniature oak table where all your dolls would gather for their daily tea parties. I remember studying those photos for hours, marveling at how meticulously arranged everything was—the tiny napkins folded just so, the microscopic sugar cubes in their porcelain bowl. I used to wonder how a little girl could be trusted around such fragile treasures without shattering them to pieces. Most children I know would have reduced that china to dust within minutes."
I nod, watching her hands work, remembering how many times I did break those tiny teacups and how quickly they were replaced before the next photo shoot.
"You had that miniature chicken coop too—the one with the painted shutters and that adorable little ramp where those three speckled hens would strut down for the camera. And there was always some perfect, impossibly cute baby animal in your arms—kittens with ribbon collars, fluffy ducklings waddling after you, or those downy chicks nestled in your cupped hands."
Yup. This was my life. And every single one of those pets were carefully selected to be photogenic, to complete the picture-perfect rural childhood fantasy everyone was buying into.
"They were rotated out," I say. Just because I need her to know. "When they grew too big or stopped being cute enough. Nothing stayed, June. Nothing was permanent. I'm not even sure any of it was real. I mean, it wasn't real. It was a stage, I know that. But there's a little part of my brain that wonders… maybe it was all made up. Just some Little-House fever-dream that only existed in Eleanor Ashby's living diorama.
"Yeah," June says. "I get it. Your life was something out of a storybook," She scrapes diced carrots into a bowl with the edge of her knife. Then she looks at me. "But that's all life is, Savannah. A story. It's nothing but a story. And I think your mother was brave."
"Brave?" I nearly snort.
"Yes. Brave. Because she had the guts to shape it into whatever she wanted. Now…" June pauses her chopping and looks at me, really looks at me, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she sees more than I want her to. That this woman in her vintage house dress can see right through the carefully constructed facade to the hollow space behind it. "I get it. She stole your story to write hers. She plagiarized you, Savannah. You have every right to resent that. To pledge that you'll never do the same to your daughter. But don't be one of those people who rebel for rebellion's sake. It's a waste."
We just stare at each other until it gets uncomfortable. She says, "Here," and hands me a knife. Then she pushes a cutting board toward me. "Make yourself useful. Those potatoes won't dice themselves."
I take the knife, grateful for something to do with my hands. I haven't actually prepared food in... I can't remember how long. There were always staff for that. Chefs who appeared and disappeared without names, leaving perfect meals that photographed well but tasted like nothing.
"I'll give you the tour after we get the food ready," June says, moving to check something in the oven. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon intensifies as she opens the door, revealing what looks like a cobbler bubbling with dark berries. "I've made sides and dessert to go with Havoc's ribs. The man thinks meat is the only food group, but the kids need vegetables. And us girls need dessert."
She winks at me. And I smile. And then we work in companionable silence for a few minutes. I'm sure my potato dicing is amateur at best—uneven chunks that would make any chef cringe—but June doesn't comment. She just sweeps them into a pot with a practiced motion.
"Your life is very photogenic as well," I finally break the silence, because it feels like I should say something. Because her kitchen makes me ache with a longing I didn't know I had.
June's smile is genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "I'll take that compliment. Especially coming from Savannah Ashby, queen of the perfect golden-hour shot."
The way she says my name—like it means something beyond me—makes me wonder who she thinks I am. Who everyone thinks I am. This woman who's watched me grow up through a carefully curated lens, who probably knows more about the fiction of my life than I know of the reality.
After we finish preparing the food, June leads me through the rest of the house, givin’ me the tour. Each room feels lived-in and loved. Children's artwork hangs in frames next to family photos—not professional portraits, but candid snapshots of real moments. Books are stacked on bedside tables—actual books with dog-eared pages and cracked spines, not decorative hardcovers arranged by color for aesthetic appeal.
I comment on things. Genuine comments, only. June and her farmhouse are probably the most authentic things I’ve seen in years. So tell I her I like the mix-matched patterns of her linen sheets. I like the antique furniture and cotton rugs. I like the texture of her floors and the panes in her windows.
Little details that almost no one mentions. Most people, when they see a house they like immediately identify why they like it.
I am not most people when it comes to details like that.
