We work in silence for a while. The rain drums on. The kitchen fills with the smells of cooking—onions, garlic, the sharp brightness of tomatoes.
"Can I ask you something?" Iris says finally.
"You can ask."
"Your mother. You said she cut ties with Grand-mère, like mine did. But you talk about her in past tense. Is she—"
"Dead." The word comes out flatter than I intended. "Four years now. Cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"It was—" I stop, focusing on the fish in front of me. "Complicated. Our relationship was complicated."
"How so?"
I don't usually talk about this. I don't usually talk about any of it—Mum, Grand-mère, the whole tangled mess of my family history. But something about the rain and the cooking and Iris's quiet presence makes the words come easier than they should.
"She was troubled," I say. "My whole life, she was troubled. Depression, anxiety, addiction—she cycled through all of it. Good periods and bad periods. And I was always either her caretaker or her burden, depending on which way the wind was blowing."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It was." I slide the prepped fish into a bowl. "But she was my mum. You don't get to choose, do you? You just love them the best you can and hope it's enough."
"Was it enough?"
"I don't know." I set down my knife, staring at the cutting board. "She died before we had a chance to really reconcile. Before I could ask her about Grand-mère, about what happened, about why she took me away from the one place I was ever really happy. She just—slipped away. And I was left with all these questions I'll never get answered."
Iris is quiet. When I look up, her face is doing something complicated—sympathy, maybe, or recognition.
"I keep thinking about that," she says softly. "About all the things I'll never get to ask. My mother is still alive, and she won't tell me anything, and Grand-mère is gone, and—" She shakes her head. "There's this huge part of my family history that's just... missing. And I don't know if I'll ever find it."
"Maybe that's what the letters are for." I think of the envelopes still sitting on the dining room table, waiting. "Grand-mère knew we'd have questions. Maybe she left us the answers."
"Have you read yours yet?"
"No. Have you?"
"No." Iris sets down her knife. "I'm scared to."
"Me too."
We look at each other across the kitchen island. The rain falls. The soup simmers.
"Why didn't you try to find her?" Iris asks. "Grand-mère. After your mother died. You could have—"
"I know." The guilt rises like bile. "I know I could have. I thought about it a thousand times. But every time, I stopped."
"Why?"
"Because I was scared." The truth comes out raw and jagged. "Scared that she wouldn't want me anymore. Scared that whatever Mum said about her was true. Scared that I'd show up after twenty years and she'd just... close the door."
Iris's eyes are wet. I didn't expect that.
"I could have come too," she says. "As an adult. I could have found her, written to her, done something. But I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because my mother told me not to." The words are bitter. "And I spent my whole life doing what my mother told me. Being good, being perfect, being the daughter she wanted. And now Grand-mère is dead, and all I have is this—" She gestures around the kitchen. "This beautiful house full of answers I was too scared to look for while she was alive."
