Daisy stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head.
"No?"
"No."
"But—the retreat—the opportunity?—"
"I don't care about the retreat." She moved to the armchair and began folding the clothes Daisy had scattered there, needingsomething to do with her hands. "If you want to buy a property in Sedona, find another way to fund it. I'm not selling my shop."
"You're being incredibly selfish."
She laughed—a short, sharp sound that surprised them both. "Selfish. That's rich, coming from you."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Mom." She set down the silk blouse she'd been folding and turned to face Daisy fully. "In my entire life, how many times have you put my needs before yours? How many times have you sacrificed something you wanted so I could have something I needed?"
Daisy bit her lip, but couldn't come up with an answer.
"That's what I thought." She sat down on the edge of the armchair, suddenly tired. "I'm not saying you're a bad person. I know you love me in your way. But you've spent your whole life chasing whatever shiny thing caught your attention, and you've always expected me to be there when the glitter faded. I can't do it anymore."
Tears were sliding down Daisy's cheeks now—real ones, Marigold thought, not the performed kind. Her mother's makeup was starting to smear, something she would never allow if this were a calculated performance.
"I never meant to hurt you," Daisy whispered.
"I know." And she did know. That was the complicated, exhausting truth of it. Her mother wasn't actually cruel. She was simply incapable of seeing beyond her own wants and needs, of understanding that other people existed as fully realized beings with their own desires and dreams.
"I just thought—we could do something together. Mother and daughter." Daisy's voice was small. "I thought you'd be excited."
"About selling everything I've worked for to fund another one of your projects?" She shook her head. "Mother, when has that ever ended well? The art gallery in Santa Fe. The vintage clothing boutique in Austin. The bed and breakfast in Vermont. What happened to all of them?"
Daisy looked away.
"They failed," she said quietly. "Because you got bored, or met someone new, or found a different shiny thing to chase. And every time, you walked away without looking back, leaving someone else to deal with the mess."
"That's not entirely?—"
"It's exactly what happened. And I'm not going to let it happen to me again." She took a deep breath. "This shop is mine. This town is mine. This life is mine. I'm not giving it up."
Silence fell again, but it was different this time. Less charged. More… settled. As if some invisible barrier between them had finally been acknowledged, bringing a strange kind of peace.
Daisy wiped at her smeared mascara with the back of her hand. "When did you become so… forceful?"
"I don't know. Recently." She thought of Thallos—his steady presence, his unwavering certainty, the way he looked at her like she was worth defending. "Someone helped me realize I was allowed to want things for myself."
"That satyr?"
"His name is Thallos."
"Yes, him." Daisy sniffed delicately. "He seems… intense."
"He is." A smile tugged at her lips. "He's also kind, and funny, and he thinks I'm extraordinary. Not because of what I can do for him, but just… because."
Daisy studied her for a long moment. "You really care about him."
"I do."
"More than you've cared about anyone else?"
