Chapter 8
Three months later, I took Liam to Ohio.
We drove up to my parents’ cottage. The tomato plants were heavy with fruit. My dad was fixing the fence. My mom was baking pie.
They didn’t ask about my job. They didn’t ask about money. They just hugged Liam like they’d known him forever.
That night, we sat around the fire pit in the yard. Crickets chirped. The air smelled like wood smoke and ripe peaches.
My dad looked at me.
“You look lighter,” he said. “Like you’re finally breathing right.”
“I am,” I said.
Liam squeezed my hand.
The next day, Margaret showed up.
I was surprised. I’d never given her my parents’ address. But I should have known she’d find it.
She stood by the gate, awkward, holding a paper bag.
“I hope it’s okay,” she said. “I just… I wanted to see where you came from. To understand why you’re so strong.”
My mom invited her in.
We sat at the kitchen table. Margaret set down the bag—homemade bread, still warm.
“I’ve been going to counseling,” she said. “And I’ve been volunteering at the shelter downtown. It’s… it’s changed how I see things.”
She looked at me.
“I know I can never be your mother,” she said. “But I’d like to be someone you can talk to. If you’ll let me.”
I thought about the salad bowl. The pearls. The way she’d looked at me like I was less than human.
I thought about her crying in the café. Her trying to change.
People aren’t just one thing. They’re layers. They can hurt you, and they can try to heal.
“I’d like that,” I said.
She smiled—a real one, soft and unguarded.
Later, while the men were walking the fields, Margaret helped my mom wash dishes.
“I was so jealous of you,” Margaret said quietly to my mom. “Elena always looked at you like you were the only people who really saw her.”
May you like
“She still does,” my mom said. “But there’s room for more people to see her too.”
***
