Chapter 20%
One year later, the light in this house falls differently.
Not just because we changed the curtains, or because Sophie insisted on painting the front door mint green “for serotonin.” It’s deeper than that.
It’s the way this house breathes now. The way silence doesn’t feel like a threat anymore, just a moment between things that matter.
It’s the way my footsteps echo through the hallway like I belong here.\
Because I do.
Not as a placeholder. Not as a favor fulfilled. Not as a stand–in wife or substitute mother.}
But as myself.
My mornings start earlier now. I still teach art at the center but only now, I run the Saturday sessions too. The ones where the kids‘ parents stay and end up finger–painting more than the children do.
I lead community projects. I organize gallery nights. Last month, we painted a mural behind the library. Sophie helped. She hid her initials in the corner where no one could see but me.
Some nights, I still sleep light. There are days I wake up reaching for ghosts. But they don’t haunt me anymore. They just… pass through.”
Isabelle’s picture still hangs in the hallway. Not in shadow, not behind glass. Just where she belongs. Sophie dusts it every Sunday without being asked.
Marcus and I didn’t rush anything. After I said yes, to us, to this life, we didn’t sprint toward vows or labels. We just rebuilt. One unspoken promise at a time.
Now we kiss in the kitchen like we mean it. We fight and apologize. We sit on the porch after Sophie’s gone to bed and talk like people who finally understand that honesty isn’t a weapon, it’s a gift.}]
I wear the ring now.
Not on my left hand. Not yet.
But it’s on me every day. A simple silver band, warm against my skin. The inside reads: Hope is a quiet thing.
It’s not a monument to what we lost.
It’s a marker of what we’ve chosen to build.
Today is the anniversary of Isabelle’s passing.
We always visit the cemetery together. No performances. No long speeches. Just flowers, presence, and space.
Sophie spent all morning pressing lavender into a small bouquet. She chose the paper herself. Hand–wrote a note. Folded it once and tucked it between the stems like a secret.§
“She liked lavender, right?” she asked.
“She loved it,” I said.§
She nodded once and didn’t ask for more.“]
On the way there, we didn’t play music. Sophie sat in the backseat, earbuds in, humming under her breath.
Marcus drove, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, close enough for my fingers to brush without words./
We pulled into the familiar gravel. Parked near the sycamore tree. The wind was gentler this year.}]
Sophie stepped ahead of us, bouquet in hand, shoulders square. She wore the necklace Isabelle gave her–a tiny pendant shaped like a
star.
When we reached the headstone, she knelt down slowly.
ISABELLE LYNN HALE!
Wife. Mother. Beloved.”
1988-20200
She laid the lavender down, then pressed her fingers to the carved name.
I waited.”
So did Marcus.
Then, without prompting, Sophie spoke.”
“Hi, Mom,” she said softly. “I brought Callie with me.”
My chest folded in on itself.”
Not “instead of.”
Not “in your place.”
With.
Sophie turned her face toward me. “She teaches now. She’s… happy.”
I couldn’t move.
“She paints loud things. Bright things. Stuff that makes people stop and look.”
“She paints loud things. Bright things. Stuff that makes people stop and look.“”
Her voice didn’t shake.N
“She’s not like you. But I think that’s why it works.”
She paused. And then,
“She’s my mom too.“N
Marcus’s breath hitched beside me. I didn’t look at him. I was too busy watching Sophie rise, brushing grass from her knees, eyes dry and clear and steady.N
She stepped forward, linked her arm through mine, and said, “Let’s go home.“W
Back in the house, Marcus pulled dinner from the oven. Sophie pretended not to notice it was her favorite. We sat around the table and told stories that didn’t start in grief.
Later, when the dishwasher hummed and the porch light buzzed to life, I stepped outside. The evening air was soft, cool against my skin.
Marcus followed a minute later, two mugs in hand. He passed one to me.
“I heard what she said,” he murmured. “At the grave.”
I nodded, cradling the cup.
“I didn’t expect it,” he added.
“Neither did I.“N
“But it was real.“N
“Yes,” I said. “It was.”
We stood in the silence together.W
No promises. No weight.
Just two people who had finally stopped pretending they didn’t deserve the life that found them.”
I looked down at the ring on my finger–simple, unpolished, whole.
And I thought of everything I had been asked to be. The roles I’d tried to fill. The woman I had tried to replace. The years I had spent being quiet, small, safe.
And i thought-
Not anymore.
I was never meant to be her.
But I became something else.}
I became my own.}]
2/2
