I hadn’t meant to snap.
I wasn’t mad, not really. I was tired.
Of performing calm. Of deferring. Of swallowing down the constant ache that I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart because someone always needed me not to.
I wrapped myself in a towel and caught my reflection in the mirror—hair wet, eyes sharper than usual.
There was a version of me I barely recognized anymore. A version that used to want things. That used to take up space without apologizing for it.
Maybe she wasn’t gone.
Maybe she was just buried.
By the timeI finished my shower and pulled on real clothes, the house was quieter. Less charged. I found Lily in the backyard, building a “fairy kingdom” out of sticks and stones. Harper’s car was gone; probably an errand she couldn’t delegate. The kitchen was empty, except for Willa, who was sweeping up glitter in slow, distracted circles.
She didn’t notice me at first. Or pretended not to.
I leaned against the doorway. “You missed a spot.”
She kept sweeping. “You missed the entire meltdown.”
I gave her a look. “I was there.”
She stopped, braced the broom against the counter, and finally turned to face me. There was a softness in her eyes that didn’t show up often.
“Sorry,” she said. It was quiet but clear. “For the altar. And for making it all about me.”
I shrugged. “We’re all grieving different ghosts.”
She set the broom aside, hopped up on the counter, and let her feet swing. “You don’t have to keep us from burning down. I know you think you do, but we’re grown. You get to be tired, too.”
It settled between us, that truth. The honesty of it.
I sat on a stool and let my shoulders drop. “I don’t know who I am when I’m not holding everything together.”
Willa nudged my knee with her foot. “You’re still you. Just... with better boundaries.”
I almost laughed. “Is that a thing?”
“It could be.”
I let it hang there, the warmth of that possibility. It was more comforting than any apology.
A few hours later,Lily was inside, sprawled on the rug with her fairy kingdom project, and I was finally alone on the porch with my coffee. I noticed something tucked behind the mailbox. At first, I thought it was for Harper: a manila envelope, maybe some legal paperwork from Boston.
But when I picked it up, it was a small jar with a sprig of wildflowers—daisies and clover, a few purple wild vetch—and a folded note tucked inside. The handwriting was careful, all lowercase letters.
for june,
you said you missed the wildflowers by the old overlook. figured you’d want some on days you can’t get away.
grant
I staredat it for a minute, heart skittering in my chest. Not a grand gesture. Not romance with a capital R.
Just someone paying attention.
Just kindness.
