Long pauses stitched between safe topics.
She doesn’t drink.
She orders sparkling water and makes sure I notice.
“I’m serious about this,” she says lightly.
I nod.
She wants acknowledgment.
Credit.
Proof that I see the effort.
I don’t give it.
Not because I’m cruel.
Because if I say it out loud — if I validate the progress — it means I might have to believe it.
From the outside, it probably looks like healing.
She doesn’t show up unannounced.
She doesn’t push when I don’t answer.
She asks permission now.
Can I call tonight?
Is it okay if I come up this weekend?
Do you need space?
The words are right.
The tone is right.
And that’s what scares me.
Sage has always known how to be exactly what someone needs when something is at stake.
Especially when she’s afraid.
I watch her the way you watch ice forming on a lake in early winter.
Still. Clear. Beautiful.
You don’t step on it yet.
My mother and sister come up one weekend.
My mom walks through the house like it’s something sacred.
“It’s cozy,” she says, running her hand along the counter I rebuilt. “You did good here.”
Family. Is. Everything.
