When I look up, Ivy is standing at the bottom of the stairs. I catch her wiping a tear along with the worry on her face. In the next breath, she smooths her expression into something bright and polished. In that high sing-song voice she wears like armor, she says, “Merry Christmas, everyone.”
***
OnceAnnasuccumbstothe morning’s excitement and drifts into a nap, I head to the sunroom to gather myself for the night ahead.
But raised voices stop me as I near.
“Ivy, will you wake the fuck up? This is not what getting married should be,” Jules snaps.
“I need to get him to the altar. Once we’re married, everything will be better.”
“Do you hear yourself right now? Who are you? When was the last time you picked up your camera? Went surfing?”
“Don’t start with me. This is what grown-ups do. You get a real job. You meet someone. You get married. You move to the suburbs. He’s a good man. I’d be insane not to marry him.”
“You’re so young. Don’t do this. Don’t settle. You deserve someone who aches when you’re not around, who makes you feel cherished and understood. Loved for being you.”
“I’m not stupid. I know he had a crush on Sydney. Maybe he still does. I mean I get it. She’s beautiful, accomplished, and smart.” Ivy’s voice wavers. “But he’s marrying me.”
“No.” Jules’s firm voice cuts in. “You don’t settle for being someone’s second choice. Youdeserveto be someone’s first choice.”
“I. Am. His. Only. Choice. She’s not a possibility with a husband and child. I’m the one who’s here.”
"I'm not going to bring this up again, so please hear me." Jules pauses, waiting for Ivy look up. "Marriage is hard. You have to choose each other every day. What Mom and Dad have? That's not magic. That's work. Honesty. Respect. Friendship. And it starts with not ignoring red flags and hoping they'll disappear."
A crack in Ivy’s voice.
“I need this to happen. It’s all I have.”
Unable to breathe in the suffocating stillness, I take the stairs two at a time, desperate for fresh air.
I know she’s scared. But how can she so blatantly overlook all of this? I wish I could tell her the truth, revisit that conversation from the deck all those years ago, without being quite so polite. Tell her what it means to marry someone who looks good on paper, who checks all the boxes but never sees you. I want to be more than a sister-in-law. I want to be her mirror.
To stop her from making the mistake I’ve lived through.
Whatever I decide about my own marriage, Ivy deserves better than settling for someone who doesn't choose her every day.
Intent on losing myself in the quiet solitude of the woods, I grab my coat. As I reach for gloves, Vera joins me. Her tiny frame is bundled in a warm parka with James’s forest green beanie pulled over the neat chignon she wears. There’s a soft but serious expression on her face.
“Mind if I join you?”
For half a second, hesitation takes hold. Spending time with Vera has been one of the unexpected gifts of this past year; her wisdom and quiet strength have become a sanctuary. She’s become something like a mother to me, though not in the way I once imagined mothers should be.
I used to picture Margaret as Marmee fromLittle Women—warm, selfless, steady. But neither Margaret nor Vera is Marmee, because motherhood is never that tidy. Margaret once gave me a bracelet, my name etched into its delicate curve, a gesture at the time I desperately needed. But she also looked away when I needed her to see. Instead of untying the knots, she helped Mason tie them tighter.
Vera has shown me another way. That strength isn’t always in sacrifice. Sometimes it sits beside you in silence, letting the ache pass through without rushing to fix it. Other times, it walks right up and asks for the truth.
And this walk? It won’t be casual. She’s been holding back, but I can feel the shift. See it in her eyes. In the unyielding set of her mouth. She’s not letting me off the hook.
Not this time.
We set off down the snow-covered trail behind the house. Our boots crunch over fresh powder, the woods silent except for the snap of a twig or a lone chickadee’s call. As we walk, our breath forms delicate clouds that dissolve into the bitter air.
I let myself settle into the rhythm of the walk, hoping, maybe foolishly, that she’ll let me hold onto the quiet. She takes a deep breath and asks the question I’ve been bracing for.
“Do you want to talk about what’s troubling you?”
“If I say no, will it matter?”
