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I shake my head, jaw clenched, trying to pull away—but she holds me firm, her hands gripping my arms with a strength that’s more love than force. Her skin is warm, a little damp, and trembling just slightly—like she’s holding on just as much for herself as she is for me.

“Evie named you. You. If something ever happened to her, she wanted you to raise those boys. She could’ve picked anyone—but she didn’t. She trusted you, because she saw how you love. How you give all of yourself, even when it costs you.”

My chest cracks wide open. “But I didn’t carry them. I didn’t make them.”

“No,” she whispers, her hands slipping down to clasp mine, rough thumbs brushing over my knuckles like she’s trying to soothe something deeper than skin. “You chose them. Every damn day, Lou, and that’s worth more than blood.”

Just like she chose me and Sophie, when she didn’t have too. Even when her life was dark and grim, she fucking chose us.

“And don’t you dare forget Dallas,” she adds. “That boy walked into your life like a God damn wildfire, and you didn’t run. You didn’t flinch. You chose him. You chose him on the worst day of his life. You chose him despite him not even knowing how to choose himself.”

My throat closes up, and the sob I’ve been holding finally tears free. I drop my head against her chest like I’m a kid again, like the weight’s finally too much to carry alone.

Then Maggie says the thing that finishes me, “You’ve spent so much of your life running from everyone who already knew you were enough. Running from love that’s been trying like hell to reach you for years.”

“It’s time to stop running, Little Lou,” she whispers softly.

I cry harder.

Because she’s right.

I’ve spent so long believing I was broken, I never stopped to see all the ways I’ve been whole. Loved. Chosen.

Maggie just holds me, the way she always has—not to fix me, but to remind me I don’t need fixing.

I’m enough just the fucking way I am.

Chapter Twenty-Four

BLESS YOUR HEART

LOUISIANA

After the talk with Maggie last night, I catch myself driving toward the one person’s house I’ve dodged for most of my adult life. It’s the place I promised myself I’d never revisit—not because I didn’t want to see Aunt Joe, but because I couldn’t bear anyone peeling back the layers of the pain I’ve kept buried so deep. That hollow ache inside me, the one that no one sees but that consumes everything. I knew Aunt Joe would uncover it in an instant. Because she carries the same weight—the quiet, unspoken sorrow we share: the wrenching truth that neither of us could have children. That loss isn’t something we’ve ever said aloud, but it’s the bond that’s been there all along. After Maggie’s words last night, I realize maybe it’s time to finally face it with someone who understands.

I don’t even notice the magnolia trees lining her driveway—their blooms blurred past by the tight knot of panic squeezing my chest. Honestly, part of me wants to burn those bitches down just to make the feeling stop. Aunt Joe’s house looms ahead, a massive farmhouse that feels like it’s stuck in a different century. The wraparound porch creaks under its own weight, the wood worn thin and rough from years of sun, rain, and storms it’s seen. The faded blue shutters hang crooked, peeling white paint giving it a stubborn, weather-beaten look that makes it feel even more intimidating. The front door looks thick and solid—like it’s been slammed open and shut a thousand times, holding its ground no matter what tries to push in. The porch is cluttered with mismatched chairs, some rocking gently in the breeze, giving off this quiet, stubborn kind of permanence that makes my throat tighten. It’s the kind of house built to outlast everything and everyone inside it.

So far it has.

I put my car in park to find her already standing on the porch waiting for me. I get out and she looks me up and down, “Come help me finish up breakfast.”

I trail behind her into the kitchen. I step next to her at the sink and stand there like I’m waiting for a damn speech. “What do I do?”

“Go wash the greens and put ’em in the pot. I’ve got everything else ready.”

Wash the greens? How the hell do you wash greens? I stare at the pile of limp leaves in front of me, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with them. After a few seconds of contemplation, I grab the dish soap and pour a generous amount on the greens, giving them a good scrub like I’m washing a dirty plate.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I freeze, dish soap in hand, looking up at her like she’s lost her mind. “Washing the greens?”

Aunt Joe’s face twists into a look of pure horror. “Hell no! You trying to fuck our bellies up! Use the vinegar, Jesus Christ.”

“Well, who the fuck cooks greens at seven-thirty in the morning!”

She narrows her gaze at me. “I don’t like that traditional breakfast bullshit. Now grab the fucking vinegar.”

I stand there for a second, completely baffled, staring at the bottle of soap in my hand like it’s a foreign object. “Vinegar? For greens?”