She was dead. I knew it before I even crawled out through the shattered window. Her unseeing eyes, the blood splattered across the dashboard, the unsettling calm on her face that almost seemed to whisper, Safe. Finally safe. It was a look that I have yet to make peace with, considering she was leaving me behind.
Then, the barrage of questions from people in uniform. And my answers, when they came, were blunt, hollow, stripped of emotion. Stunned, I guess.
No one to call.
I don’t have a father.
No family.
No, I don’t know where we were going.
We live in my mother’s car. That’s our home.
Yes, for a long time. That’s all we have. Had.
And now, even that was gone.
Through it all, my fingers clung to Clare’s hand. And she never let go. Not once. She was the first person who held onto me and promised she would never let go. And she kept that promise.
Sort of a miracle she’d been driving by that day. Definitely a miracle that she stopped. When no one else would take me in, she did. First as an unofficial foster kid, then as her own when she adopted me. A single woman in her forties, she had no patience for nonsense and even less for the complications that came with a homeless, malnourished child who lacked education, manners, and everything in between.
But she never gave up. She fought for me, stood by me. And as I got older, she weathered every moody storm of my teen rebellion with patience and grace. She was there through every turning point—graduations, heartbreaks, career changes, late-night phone calls when life felt too heavy. Even when I thought I didn’t need her, she showed up for me. With wisdom. With laughter. With unconditional love.
Clare Randall. Thinking of her now, tears blurred my vision. My mother. Headstrong, stubborn, ornery. She tried to hide it, but she had a heart of gold.
Regret churned in my stomach as I thought of all the times in the past decade I hadn’t seen her enough, hadn’t called her enough. The bond we had once forged had faded into nothing more than once-a-month calls, birthdays, and occasional holiday visits. But it was always Clare who made the effort. She booked flights to California, came when I needed her, and reminded me, over and over, that I was still hers. Even as my life spun faster and faster, and sometimes out of control, she remained my anchor.
My marriage to Rhys turned an already turbulent life into a full-blown hurricane. Deadlines. Unpaid bills. The constant hustle to keep us afloat. Rhys was an actor—always chasing the next audition, the next small role, the next ‘maybe.’ That’s how the industry worked. Every callback held the promise of a breakthrough. Every ‘no’ felt like starting over. Feast or famine, but mostly famine.
Then we had a baby.
I tried to do it all. Wear every hat. Be everything for everyone. As a freelance writer, I was barely scraping together a living. It was just a different kind of famine.
I never wanted to burden Clare with our mess, so I kept putting off calling her. Told myself I’d do it tomorrow. Next week. That the next visit would make up for the last short one. I kept promising myself, and her, that we’d spend the summer in Harbor View. But time slipped away.
And now Clare, the woman who had fought so hard to hold on to me, was gone.
“Mom, don’t miss the exit.”
Ocean’s voice yanked me back to reality, away from the ghosts of the past. The rental car hugged the curve as we flew onto the exit.
“You’ve got those red patches on your face again.”
I glanced in the mirror. Stress always brought on hives. “You’re right. I look diseased.”
“You don’t look diseased. You just look...sad. Grieving. Or whatever.” She paused. “I miss her too.”
She was right. As usual. There hadn’t been enough time to process any of it.
First came the phone call from Arthur, the bookstore owner across the street. Clare’s only friend. The news had blindsided me. Guilt would follow later.
I’m so sorry, Skye. There’s been a freak accident...
A rainy night. Late. Clare had been poking around in her antique store, the Salt Box, her pride and joy. A slip, a fall, the unforgiving edge of a marble tabletop. The EMTs said she’d died instantly.
That was it. My mother was gone.
Arthur’s voice had been gentle but firm. “How soon can you get back here?”
