The bell above the shop door chimed softly.
I kept trimming stems.
One cut.
Then another.
Precise movements. Controlled movements.
The kind that kept my hands busy enough to stop my thoughts from spiraling.
“Be right with you,” I called automatically.
No answer came back.
Just silence.
Something about it made my stomach tighten.
Slowly, I looked up.
The clippers slipped from my fingers and clattered against the counter.
“No…”
Margaret Reynolds stood just inside the flower shop.
Cathy’s mother.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Older too.
The years had carved deep lines around her mouth and eyes, but the way she looked at me hadn’t changed.
Sharp.
Searching.
Like she still wasn’t sure what she was seeing.
Neither of us moved.
The flower shop suddenly felt too quiet.
Too small.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said finally.
Margaret let the door close softly behind her. “I didn’t know I was either.”
Her voice sounded steady.
Too steady.
Like she was holding herself together by force.
My chest tightened.
