I blink at him, the words barely registering through the exhaustion fogging up my brain.
“Why do you need new cleats?” My voice is tight, already bracing for whatever answer is coming. “And I just bought you new pants a few months ago.”
He shifts on his feet, glancing down at his legs like he’s only now realizing how much taller he is. “Yeah, well…I kinda grew out of them already.”
Something inside me snaps.
The frustration, the helplessness, the sheer weight of everything pressing down on me all day finally cracks open.
“Hudson, not now, okay? Why don’t you go up to your room or something.” The words come out too sharp, too tired, too much.
He steps back immediately, his expression shifting. “I—okay. I just—”
I close my eyes, trying to calm the hell down, but the guilt hits too fast, too hard.
He’s just a kid.Mykid. And he’s standing in front of me looking hurt and confused because I couldn’t get my shit together for five seconds.
I wrap my arms around him and press my lips to the top of his head. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, squeezing my eyes shut. “I didn’t mean to snap atyou, baby. I’m just…stressed.”
He nods against me. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not. I’m sorry.” I tighten my grip on him, forcing my breath to steady. “But I love you. You know that, right?”
He lets out a small, muffled laugh. “Yeah, Mom. I know.”
I pull back, cupping his face for just a second. “Go take a shower before you get dirt on the couch.”
He grins, his face already half turned toward the stairs. “No promises.”
I watch him disappear up the steps, my chest tight.
The second his bedroom door clicks shut, the tears come—fast, hot, relentless. But they’re not sad.
They’re angry.
At Wendell.
At Boone.
At myself.
At all of it.
I swipe at my cheeks, jaw tight, heart pounding like it’s looking for someone to blame. I don’t know how I’m going to fix this. Not yet.
But I will.
I have to.
Chapter 12
BOONE
The late afternoon sun hangs low, throwing long streaks of gold across the clearing where Old Faithful sits. The place has fought us every step of the way, but slowly, we’re fighting back.
We’ve gutted most of the kitchen, stripped the walls down to the beams so we can rewire what’s been out of code for years. The front porch had to be torn down completely, nothing but rotted boards and rusted nails, but the new frame is already taking shape, waiting for fresh planks. Inside, the floors are half sanded, layers of old varnish giving way to solid wood that’s got some life left in it.
Progress is slow, but progress is progress.
