The harsh reply stung a little. Still, Lila’s chest ached as she looked at her daughter, who suddenly seemed so much younger, so fragile. She reached out, taking Camille’s hands in her own. “We’ll figure this out,” she’d said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her. “We’ll figure everything out.”
Camille’s tears spilled over, and she nodded, her grip tightening on Lila’s hands. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she whispered. “About all of it.”
Lila shook her head, swallowing her disappointment. “Don’t apologize. We’ll get through this. Together.”
But as she’d held her daughter close, her mind raced with questions and fears she wasn’t ready to voice. Together or not, their lives had just changed forever.
Lila then spent the night staring at the bedroom ceiling, her arms aching with the memory of holding Camille, while her mind spiraled through an endless maze of what-ifs. The enormity of what lay ahead pressed down on her chest, demanding answers she didn’t have. She couldn’t yet see the shape of their future, only the jagged edges of the unknown—and the sharp reality that some pieces might never fit together the way she hoped.
Financial worries gnawed at her—the assistance she’d lined up for her daughter’s schooling could evaporate now. She could manage without it, of course, but at what cost? Would her focus falter under the weight of it all? And how would she navigate the potential awkwardness of running into the young man responsible for this upheaval?
She now padded to the kitchen, careful not to make noise. Camille’s door remained firmly shut, and Lila didn’t want to disturb her. She needed answers, but not at the expense of their relationship. Camille had always trusted her, but Lila knew instinctively that pressing too hard now could push her away. Camille would open up when she was ready.
Still, how could she let her return to school? The thought of her daughter being hours away during this pregnancy—it was unbearable. Lila’s chest tightened as she thought of her own lonely pregnancy, relying on letters and sporadic calls from Fallujah to feel connected to her husband. Camille would need her now more than ever.
Lila moved with practiced quiet, setting the kettle to boil and spooning grounds into the French press. The snow outside reflected pale light into the kitchen as she retrieved her favorite mug, the one with a crack along the handle that had somehow held firm for years. Her hands shook as she poured the steaming water over the coffee grounds, and the tears came silently, slipping down her cheeks as she stared out into the storm.
She whispered into the stillness, her voice trembling as she spoke to her long-dead husband. “Oh, Aaron...what do I do? Our daughter needs me, but I don’t even know how to help her yet. I wish you were here. You’d know what to say.”
The sound of the kettle clicking off punctuated her grief, and she wiped her face with the back of her hand as if erasing the evidence. Just then, the phone rang, startling her. She grabbed it quickly, glancing at Camille’s closed door.
“Hello?”
“Morning, Lila,” came Reva’s familiar, cheerful tone. “Just checking—are we still on for delivering meals today? Roads are messy, but we’ve got a snowstorm crew ready to go.”
Lila cleared her throat, forcing a casual tone. “I may have had a change of plans.”
“Oh?” came Reva’s reply, not so easily fooled. “What’s up?”
Lila had a quick change of heart, not ready to invite questions…or provide answers she didn’t have. “Never mind. I’ll be ready in an hour.”
In the background, she heard Camille stirring upstairs. When she poked her head out moments later and descended the staircase, Lila covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Camille, I committed to help deliver meals.”
Camille hesitated, the faintest flush creeping up her neck. “It’s no problem, Mom. Go—I have some studying to do.”
Lila caught the flicker of something behind her daughter’s eyes but let it pass. “We’ll talk more when I get home, okay?” She watched as her daughter grabbed her backpack, retreated back to her room, and shut the door.
“Who are you talking to?” Reva asked when Lila returned to the conversation.
“Uh, no one,” Lila replied, perhaps a touch too quickly. “Just the dog. I’ll see you soon.”
She hung up before more questions could come and stood there for a moment, gripping the counter. Then she heard it—the crunch of tires in the snow. She glanced out the window and saw a familiar truck pulling up. Whit Calloway.
A minute later, Whit was on the porch, chains slung over one shoulder and an easy smile on his face. He stamped snow off his boots before stepping inside, the smell of cold clinging to him.
“Thought you might need these,” he said, holding up the chains. “Roads are slick.”
Lila shook her head, smiling despite herself. “This is spring snow, Whit. It never sticks. Gone by noon.”
Her friend shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”
Lila studied him for a moment, his presence somehow grounding her. She didn’t feel quite as overwhelmed with him standing there. She offered him coffee, and he accepted with a grin. “Just let me get these on first.”
Whit strode across the driveway and to her car, chains slung over his shoulder, his breath visible in the crisp mountain air. Lila stood on the porch, her arms wrapped around herself against the chill, watching him work. For a fleeting moment, the weight on her chest felt just a little lighter.
“There, all done,” he said when he’d finished. He smiled with that quiet, familiar grin he seemed to reserve just for her. He climbed the steps, brushing the snow off his hands. “That should do it.”
“Thanks,” Lila said, brushing her fingers against his. The touch lingered, just long enough to send a flicker of heat through her. “You didn’t have to do this.”
