One evening, we lounged in the living room, the fire crackling low and the tea cooling in our mugs. I must have had a sad look on my face, Margot leaned forward, "Sweetheart," Margot said, fixing me with that unnervingly kind stare of hers, the kind that felt like it could unzip your ribcage and read your diary by heart. "I don't know what happened exactly with you, and you don't owe us your story. Honestly, January barely told us hers either. She was always secretive. But she did tell us this; you were important to her. Like a sister she'd kill for, and for us, that was enough."
She leaned back in her chair, mug of tea balanced on her knee, and sighed softly, as though she'd been waiting for me to really hear her.
"You know what I see when I look at you?" she continued, her voice gentler now. "I see a woman who's been through hell and is somehow still standing. Behind those sad eyes, there's someone strong, someone beautiful who hasn't forgotten how to fight, just maybe forgotten she's allowed to rest. You deserve more than survival. You deserve love. You deserve laughter. You deserve a life that doesn't hurt when you wake up in the morning, and whether you believe that yet or not, we believe it for you. Until you can."
Her words sank into me like warmth I didn't know I'd been craving. They hit somewhere low and stupid in my chest, where I kept all the feelings I didn't like looking at. I swallowed against the lump in my throat, which felt suspiciously like a stupid little sob trying to escape. But Margot, mercifully, didn't wait for an answer. She clapped her hands with the flair of a game show host unveiling the bonus round.
"Now, onto more pressing matters! The mug-painting championship awaits."
I blinked. "The what?"
Margot shot to her feet like a game-show host who'd just revealed the grand prize. Her slippers squeaked across the tile as she disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later she returned, arms cradling a battered cardboard box like it was a crown jewel. She plopped it onto the table with a dramaticthud.
Inside: a dozen plain white mugs and enough paint pens to supply either an art school or a pack of sugar-crazed toddlers.
"Welcome," she intoned in her best announcer voice, "to the Eighth Annual Totally-Not-Rigged Margot's Mug-Painting Extravaganza!"
Billy, who had been quietly sipping tea in the corner, muttered without looking up, "This is thefirstannual."
She waved him off. "Details. History is what you make it."
We gathered around the kitchen table beneath the lopsided pendant lamp that flickered like it was judging us. Margot dove in with the ferocity of a general planning battle strategy, narrating every squiggle.
"This," she said solemnly, dragging her pen in a questionable green curve, "is either a frog or a fern that gave up on life. Scholars will debate it for centuries."
When she was finished, she held it aloft like it was the unveiling of theMona Lisa. Except her version looked like the Mona Lisa had been drawn on a bumpy bus ride.
"Behold! Picasso's fever dream," she announced, grinning ear to ear. "If he'd painted it drunk. With his non-dominant foot. While blindfolded."
I held up mine sheepishly. "And mine looks like a potato."
"Perfect!" she crowed. "A collaboration! We'll call the collectionThe Great Depression, But Make It Art.Admission to our gallery will cost three cookies each. No refunds."
Billy finally looked over at both mugs, then at us. "You realize we have to drink out of those, right?"
Margot gasped theatrically. "Howdareyou! You don'tdrinkfrom art. You sip inspiration. Slowly. With pinkies out."
I laughed before I could stop myself, one of those weird, hiccuping laughs that starts in your chest and makes your eyes feel too full. I hadn't even realized how tightly I'd been holding everything in. Margot didn't say anything, just beamed like she'd just won a secret battle I hadn't known I was fighting.
Later that week, Billy surprised me by opening the door to his garage and gesturing me inside like it was a vault. The air was sharp with cedar and metal, but there was something richer too, like the faint mineral tang you catch near riverbeds after rain.
The place was cluttered, yes, but not messy. Every surface seemed to hold some small treasure: glass jars lined up like soldiers, filled with tumbled stones that glimmered even in the dusty light; velvet trays scattered with quartz points, amethysts, slivers of labradorite that flashed sudden fire when I moved. Strands of wire curled across the workbench like vines, half-wrapped around pieces that waited patiently to be finished.
It wasn't glamorous in the magazine sense, but it had its own quiet kind of splendor. The stones made the space feel alive, like it was breathing color into the air.
"Didn't know you made jewelry," I whispered, tracing a row of copper spirals beside a tray of small, raw emerald chips, green like deep forest light. Billy gave one of his small, noncommittal shrugs, his eyes steady on the work in front of him. "Not much. Just a hobby. Keeps my hands busy, my mind quiet. Margot calls it my monk time."
I smiled at that—of course Margot would name it something dramatic.
Billy pulled a little tray closer, its surface scattered with rocks and half-finished settings. He touched each one like they were old friends, his fingers careful, reverent.
"Take this," he said, holding up a piece of citrine. Golden light seemed to burn in its center, warm and alive. "This one always makes me think of Margot. Bright, bold, loud as sunshine. Citrine doesn't just sit there—it glows, it lifts the whole room. My wife walks in and suddenly it's brighter, even when she's driving me mad." He chuckled softly. "She's the kind of stone you can't ignore."
Next, he picked up a sharp-edged piece of sapphire, deep blue that seemed to hold a night sky in its depths. "Now this here—this is January. Solid, unyielding, loyal to the bone. Sapphires are tough. One of the hardest stones there is. They've been worn in crowns for centuries, not just because they're beautiful, but because they stand for truth, strength, wisdom. That's your friend all over. She doesn't bend easy, but if she's chosen you, she'll guard you like this stone guards the heavens."
He set it down and reached for an opal, turning it in his callused fingers. The milky surface shifted into sudden flashes of fire—green, blue, orange. "Opal's unpredictable. You think it's dull until the light hits it just right, and then it burns with every color you can imagine. Reminds me of people who hide whole galaxies under their skin. The ones who carry storms and rainbows both." He glanced at me meaningfully.
He held up the smoky quartz between his fingers, turning it slowly so the light caught its fractured core. Then he looked at me, eyes soft but steady. "You see these cracks?" he said. "They shimmer like tiny rivers—like something ancient was pressed into the stone and left behind a map of everything it's survived. These aren't just breaks. They're stories. Every fracture, every scar, it's where the light moves through. That's where its beauty lives—not in spite of the damage, but because of it. The pressure, the pain, the weight of everything it's endured—that's what made it shine like this."
