I sat on the bed with my sketchbook and stared at the blank page.
No agenda. No gallery deadline. No client expectations.
Just me. And the need to turn the ache into something.
I started to draw.
Not the porch swing. Not the house.
A hand.
Holding another hand.
Then I added a third.
Three hands, overlapping at the palms, knotted like vines.
No one would ever see it. Not unless I let them.
But it made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Connected.
Still broken in places. But... stitched, too.
7
HARPER
Imade a spreadsheet.
Of course I did.
It was the only way I knew how to manage something that felt this… unmanageable.
Each line item was color-coded; tasks, contacts, deadlines, supplies. I’d already emailed the town hall to ask about permits for using the public park in case our backyard proved too feral. I texted the mayor’s assistant, who I hadn’t spoken to since graduation, and pretended I didn’t feel the sting of returning to a town where everyone still thought of me asIris Alden’s eldest granddaughter.
Some people wore legacy like a crown.
I wore it like a tailored straitjacket.
Willa wandered into the kitchen mid-morning wearing a tank top with a cartoon crab and the wordsemotionally sidewaysprinted across the front.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked, peering over my shoulder.
“Saving this event from becoming a glitter-coated bonfire.”
“Bold of you to assume glitter’s not part of the plan.”
I didn’t respond. I just typed.
“Okay, but real talk,” she continued. “Can we hang fairy lights in the backyard trees? Like, a curtain of them? I have a vision.”
“You always have a vision.”
“And you always need a project. Look at us. Thriving in our own dysfunction.”
She kissed the top of my head and disappeared.
