For the first time, I wasn’t writing to prove I belonged. I wasn’t trying to heal. I wasn’t trying to scream into silence.
I was just telling stories.
And building a life with the man who reminded me I deserved to be heard.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be walking up the front steps of my parents’ house with an engagement ring on my finger and Greyson Shaw at my side, I would’ve laughed, then cried, then laughed again.
But here we were.
Greyson glanced over as we reached the door, his hand lightly resting at the small of my back. “You good, honey bee?”
I nodded, but the fluttering in my chest said otherwise. “Just... nervous. I haven’t brought anyone here like this. Notsince…”
He stopped me with a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to explain.”
I took a deep breath and rang the bell.
My mother opened the door a second later. She’d been watching from the window, no doubt. Her face was softer than I remembered from the old days, the sharp lines around her mouth now replaced with something closer to warmth. She glanced at Greyson, then back at me, then at my left hand.
She gasped. “You’re engaged?”
Greyson grinned and stepped forward, reaching for her hand. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Cunningham.”
She blinked, visibly flustered, but shook his hand. “Please. Call me Laura. And congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice shaking with something I couldn’t name. “We wanted to come by in person.”
My dad appeared in the hallway behind her, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. His gaze fell to the ring on my finger, then drifted up to Greyson. There was a moment, longer than I liked, where no one said anything.
Then he smiled. Not big. But real.
“Well,” he said. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
We ate at the old dining room table that never changed, even after all these years. Mom had made roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It smelled like every Sunday night from my childhood, safe, warm, and oddly grounding.
Greyson was charming in that easy, calm way of his. He complimented my mom’s cooking, asked my dad about his woodworking projects, and didn’t flinch when the inevitablequestions about his bar came up.
“And you really like it?” my mom asked, slicing into her chicken. “Running a business like that?”
“I do,” Greyson said. “It’s not fancy, but it’s honest work. And I’ve made it my own. That place means a lot to me.”
She nodded slowly. “I can respect that.”
I glanced between them, stunned by the ease.
After dinner, we sat in the living room with coffee and pecan pie. Greyson’s arm draped around my shoulders as I curled into him, and I caught my mother watching us from across the room.
“I didn’t expect this,” she said quietly.
“What?” I asked.
Her eyes moved between me and Greyson. “To see you like this. Whole. Happy.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in her voice.
Greyson kissed the top of my head and squeezed my hand.
“I didn’t think I’d come back here,” I admitted. “But everything changed when I did.”
