I’d told him I’d be there in a couple of days. It had turned into ten days.
Even that had been a scramble. Juggling deadlines, asking for extensions, getting through Ocean’s last week of school, crossing off the endless list of things that had to happen before we could hit the road. It was overwhelming, but somehow we pulled it off.
“It’s okay to cry, Mom. Grief’s not like some to-do list where you can just check things off and move on.”
I glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “What TikTok therapist did you steal that from?”
She rolled her eyes. “Wow. Some credit, for once. That was all me.”
I shook my head.
Ocean shrugged. “Like you always say. Fifteen going on thirty.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
Motherhood was a lot of things—exhausting, frustrating, a never-ending cycle of negotiating screen time, debating skirt lengths, and putting my foot down about piercings and tattoos. It meant sleepless nights, eye rolls, slammed doors, and so many moments of second-guessing myself. But right now, hearing the quiet concern in her voice, feeling the way her words reached out to steady me, I felt something else. Love. The warm, swelling kind that spread through my chest like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. The kind that reminded me we were still tethered, mother and daughter, even in all the chaos.
And this past spring, chaos didn’t just come from thin finances.
My marriage was crumbling.
Rhys had finally landed his big break. A supporting role in a feature film shooting in New Mexico. He’d already been gone a month, with production expected to stretch into fall.
He came home for one weekend, just before I got the call about Clare. Filming had been shut down temporarily due to a safety issue.
That weekend was a disaster.
We fought. Sharp words. Deep cuts. The kind you don’t come back from easily.
He said it was his time now. That he’d sacrificed too much to let this opportunity pass him by. He needed space. Freedom to give everything to his career.
As if I hadn’t given him everything already.
While he’d chased auditions, I worked. While he’d partied late into the night, I paid the bills. I held our lives together while he waited for his shot. And now, with his dream finally within reach, he expected more from me.
What did wanting space mean? Was he asking for a divorce? I asked him that directly. But he said no.
I was exhausted. Drained by the excuses. Done begging for time, for presence, for partnership. Long-distance wasn’t working.
When he suggested Ocean and I join him for the summer, it made sense. School would be out. My work was remote. That was the plan.
Then the call came. Clare had died.
I was shattered. Rhys, on the other hand, insisted we stick to the plan.
“Fly to the East Coast for the funeral, hire a lawyer, get a real estate agent to handle everything,” he said. “You can wrap it up in a couple of days.”
I couldn’t do it. I’d already stolen time from my mother when she was alive. I wasn’t about to do the same in her death.
Wrap it up. Clare deserved better.
Ocean stuck her head out the window, letting the wind tangle her curls. She looked back at me and grinned.
“You know, I’m totally lit about checking out your old turf.” She pushed the sunglasses up on top of her head. “It’ll be fun. Just the two of us.”
I stole a glance at my daughter. The way she emphasized the words ‘two of us’ scratched at a scab on my conscience. I appreciated what she was saying, but I didn’t want her to give up on her father. My roots, my family—if I had any—were important. Not knowing where I came from before that car crash was maddening.
From the nights I’d spent curled up in the backseat of my mother’s car, listening to the rain pound down on the roof, to the years when I found refuge with Clare in her house, the idea of having a father had always been just that...an idea. A dream. Something distant. A fairy tale.
