She leans forward, her intensity undeniable.
"Nora, you've spent years building a life you thought you were supposed to want. But somewhere along the way, you stopped checking in with yourself. Stopped asking if that's what you actually want. If it makes your soul sing. If it makes you feel like yourself instead of some polished version designed for public consumption."
"How do I even know what would make me happy?" The question comes out desperate, raw.
My hands tremble slightly in hers.
"I thought I knew. But now?—"
"Now you're remembering what it felt like to want something so badly it scared you," Mom finishes gently. "That's not a bad thing, sweetie. That's not failure or weakness or confusion. That's being alive. That's being human. That's your heart reminding you that you're allowed to want things that don't make sense on paper. You're allowed to choose passion over pragmatism. You're allowed to feel."
I stare at her, feeling the truth of it settle into my bones, rearranging everything I thought I knew.
"I'm not telling you what to do," she continues, her voice softening. "About any of it. Those are your decisions to make. But I am telling you that you need to stop living for everyone else's expectations—including your own outdated ones. You're allowed to change your mind. You're allowed to want different things than you wanted five years ago. You're allowed to choose yourself, even if it disappoints people. Even if it means admitting you were wrong about what you needed."
"What if I choose wrong again?” My voice is small, afraid.
"Then you'll learn and choose differently next time." She squeezes my hands again, grounding me. "But staying in something that makes you miserable because you're afraid of making the wrong choice? That's not living, Nora. That's just existing. That's letting fear drive while your heart sits in the passenger seat watching life pass by. And you deserve more than that. You deserve to feel alive."
The words wrap around me, warm and insistent and exactly what I needed to hear even if I didn't know it.
We sit in silence for a moment, morning light streaming through the windows, the smell of bread and coffee and home filling the space between us.
"I need to end things with Wes," I say finally. "Properly. Not because of the photos or because he got caught. Because I don't want to marry him. Because it's not right and hasn't been for a while and I've been too afraid to admit it."
Mom nods. "That sounds like a good first step."
"And then I need to figure out what I actually want. Who I actually am when I'm not trying to be what everyone expects."
"Also a good step."
I take a breath, feeling lighter somehow despite the chaos.
"Thank you. For this. For not judging me for being such a mess."
"You're not a mess, my love. You're just human." She stands, moves around the table to pull me into another hug. "And you're exactly where you're supposed to be right now. Trust that. Trust yourself. Trust that it's okay to not have all the answers yet."
I hold onto her, letting myself be small and uncertain and loved anyway.
Letting myself believe that maybe she's right—that this falling apart is actually the beginning of putting myself back together.
The right way this time.
When I get backto the cabin, I notice Nate's car is gone from where it was parked earlier.
But there, on the small table on the porch, is a coffee and a small paper bag that I already know contains cinnabons from his Corrigan’s bakery.
There's a note tucked under the mug, written on the back of what looks like a receipt in his familiar scrawl:
Sorry if it's cold by the time you get home.
— N
The coffee isn't cold and neither are the cinnamon rolls.
Which means he was here maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago at most. Which means he's been paying attention to my routines and knows roughly when I take my morning runs.
I sit down on the porch steps with my coffee and cinnamon roll, the morning sun warm on my face, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself feel it.
