WALK DON’T RUN
NORA
Mom's housesits exactly the way I remember it—white clapboard, blue shutters, the porch swing Nick installed the summer before I left still swaying gently in the breeze. The garden is immaculate as always, Mom's way of keeping her hands busy when she’s not down at the clinic.
I stand at the gate for a moment, gathering courage I shouldn't need to see my own mother, then push through and climb the familiar steps.
Mom's house smells like coffee and warm bread when I step inside, and the comfort of it almost breaks me. This kitchen, this light, this feeling of safety—it's what I've been missing without realizing it.
She's at the stove, her back to me, and when she turns, her whole face lights up.
"Nora! I didn't know you were coming by."
“Hope that’s okay.”
She pulls me into a hug without hesitation, and I hold on maybe a little too long. “It’s always okay.”
When I pull back, her eyes are already searching mine with that maternal radar that misses nothing.
"Everything okay, sweetheart?"
I nod, but we both know it's a lie.
She guides me to the kitchen table without another word.
"Coffee?"
"Please."
She pours two cups, sets one in front of me, and settles into the chair across from me with the patience of someone who knows not to rush whatever's coming.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, staring into it like it might have answers.
"I'm sorry," I start. "For disappearing. For not coming home more. For letting everything in LA consume me so completely that I forgot?—"
My voice catches.
"That I forgot what matters."
"Nora." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You don't need to apologize for building a life. For being successful. Your dad would be so proud of what you've accomplished."
The mention of Dad makes my eyes burn.
"Would he? Or would he be disappointed that I let work and... and everything else come before family? Before the people who actually love me?"
She reaches across the table, takes both my hands in hers, her grip warm and steady.
My pulse slows slightly while the tightness in my chest eases.
"Hey, honey, no. Listen to me." Her voice is soft but insistent, carrying the weight of maternal wisdom and unconditional love. "Your father never measured success by how much time you spent in one place or another. He measured it by whether you were living a life that made you feel alive. Whether you were being true to yourself."
She squeezes my hands gently.
"He'd also tell you that none of the success in the world means anything if you're not happy. So..." She pauses, her eyes searching mine. "Are you happy?"
So many people have asked me that question and the answer should be simple.
"I thought I was," I say quietly. "Or I thought I should be. I have everything I worked for—the books, the titles, the movie deal, a fiancé who's successful and ambitious and?—"
