Camille stared at it, then tentatively laid her hand in her mother’s.
“I’m here,” Lila said. “And I’ll be here—through all of it. Whether you stay, go back to school, chase dreams, or fall apart first. I’m not going anywhere.”
And this time, her daughter didn’t pull away.
Camille was discharged from the hospital two days later. Lila brought her home, set her up in the guest room with soft blankets and ginger tea, and waited—for a shift, for a crack in the armor, for her daughter to crumble in a way that invited comfort.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Camille moved through the house like a ghost, quiet and determined. She answered calls from her professors, sent emails confirming her return to campus, and by the fifth morning, she had her bags packed and stacked by the door.
There’d been no real conversation, no closure—just the hollow logistics of moving forward.
And so, less than a week after losing the baby, Camille climbed into her compact car and pulled out of the driveway with her eyes on the horizon and her heart locked up tight. Lila stood on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, watching the taillights until they disappeared down the winding road. She’d waved, forced a smile. Even managed a cheery, “Text when you stop for gas,” though her voice had cracked at the end.
After the car was gone, the silence came rushing in.
Lila made her way down the gravel path to the mailbox, craving something—anything—to fill the emptiness. Perhaps she should try and meet up with one of the girls for lunch.
Inside, tucked between a real estate flyer and an electric bill, was a single ivory envelope. Heavy stock. A formal monogram engraved on the flap in raised gold lettering.
She opened it slowly, her fingers trembling. The card inside was crisp, impersonal.
“I’m sorry to learn of your loss. Sincerely, Senator Claudia Newcomb.”
No return address. No warmth. No mention of Camille’s name.
Lila stood there for a long moment, the breeze stirring her hair as she stared down at the card. Somehow, the cool politeness of it hit harder than she’d expected.
She folded it once, then again, and slipped it back into the envelope. Her eyes burned, but no tears came.
Instead, she turned and walked slowly back to the house—each step measured, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Her daughter was gone. Her granddaughter never had a chance. And the woman who chose to never be part of their future had sent regrets written in gold.
16
Reva steered her shiny black Escalade up the narrow pine tree-lined lane, the tires crunching over a thick layer of fallen needles and leaves. Sunlight filtered through the branches in golden threads, dappling the windshield and catching in her braided hair like a halo. The road curved gently, then widened into a clearing, revealing the house she’d visited more times over the years than she could count.
Modest, sturdy, and well-loved, the home stood with quiet dignity—a wood-framed structure stained a deep brown, its green shutters slightly faded from seasons of sun and snow. A small, covered porch jutted from the front, its floorboards weathered and a little crooked. A pair of rocking chairs flanked the door, their paint peeling at the arms where hands had rested for years.
Behind the house, the tin roof of a stock shed glinted in the light. Beyond it, a wire fence contained a handful of sheep, lazily grazing at the feeding trough. One lifted its head at the sound of her engine, then returned to chewing.
Reva parked and turned off the engine.
She didn’t move right away. Just sat there with the engine off, the ticking of the cooling motor the only sound in the quiet clearing. Her gaze drifted to the front yard, scattered with crisp fall leaves. A child’s swing set sat off to one side, its frame slightly rusted but still upright, two plastic swings twisting idly in the wind.
Reva exhaled slowly and leaned her head back against the seat. She hadn’t wanted to come here. Not today. Not this way.
And still, she’d come. Because duty had a voice louder than her emotions.
Reva rubbed her palms down her thighs, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her slacks. She straightened, eyes narrowing slightly as her hand reached for the door handle.
Reva climbed out of the car and closed the door behind her.
June Southcott stepped out onto the porch, letting the door ease shut behind her. She wasn’t what folks might call flashy—never had been—but there was a simple grace about her that spoke of strong roots and deep love. Her gray-blonde hair was pulled back into a low twist, a few wisps lifting in the breeze. She wore a soft denim button-down over a long-sleeved cotton tee, the collar gently frayed from washings. Her jeans were clean but well-worn, and her brown leather shoes looked like they’d seen more than a few gardens and grocery aisles.
A faded dish towel was still tucked into her waistband, and Reva had a sudden, vivid memory of being a teenager and sitting at this very table inside, hands curled around a mug of tea, June fussing quietly in the kitchen with that same towel slung over her shoulder. She hadn’t changed much. A little older maybe. A little thinner around the face. But the kindness was still there.
June stepped down from the porch, her eyes meeting Reva’s as she crossed the lawn with steady steps. Leaves swirled around her ankles as she walked.
