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And then my mom stands, tentative, hope flickering across her face like she’s afraid it’ll be snuffed out before she reaches me.

I cross the room before I can overthink it. My boots are too loud against the hardwood floor, my heart louder still.

“Hi,” I say, my voice small but steady.

My mom’s smile wobbles. “Hi, baby.”

The word hits me right in the center of my chest. I haven’t been her baby for a long, long time. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like a weapon today. It just feels… soft. Hopeful.

I step into her hug.

She smells the same. Like vanilla hand cream and the faintest trace of her favorite perfume. For a second, my knees wobble under the weight of it—under the weight of everything we lost and everything we’re still trying to rebuild.

“I’m glad you came,” she whispers against my hair.

“Me too,” I breathe back.

When we pull apart, Isabel is already sliding out of the booth. She smiles at me—tight at the edges, like she’s not sure how much she’s allowed to show—but it’s there. Real. Honest.

“Hey, stranger,” she says lightly.

I let out a half-laugh, half-sob and pull her into a hug. She’s solid and warm and smells like new leather and whatever expensive perfume her husband probably bought her for their anniversary.

And then there’s Sofia.

She hesitates just for a beat—long enough to make my throat close up—before she launches herself at me.

“I missed you,” she says fiercely, her arms wrapping around my waist like she’s afraid I might disappear again.

“I missed you too,” I choke out, squeezing her tight.

I hold on for an extra beat before finally sliding into the booth with them, feeling the kind of awkward, tentative hope that only exists when you’re building something from the ashes.

The conversation starts slow. Careful. Like we’re all testing the ice to see if it’ll hold.

My mom asks about the twins, and when I pull out my phone to show them pictures, something breaks open in the best possible way.

Isabel leans over, cooing at a photo of Kody yawning so wide he looks like he might actually dislocate his jaw.

“Oh my god, look at that little face,” she says, genuine laughter bubbling up like we’re sisters again instead of strangers pretending.

And Sofia—God, Sofia—grins so hard she practically vibrates in her seat. “I’m stealing them. Both of them. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

I laugh, and it feels good. It feels earned.

I tell them about life back in Texas. About Fletch and the band and Reese and Thorin and the way it feels to be tethered to people who know how to stay.

And for the first time in a long time, I realize I’m not talking to ghosts. I’m not trying to patch up a story that’s already ended.

I’m writing a new one.

With them.

With all the mess and awkwardness and stubborn hope that comes with trying again when you don’t have to—but you want to.

Later, when I step outside into the crisp afternoon air, the sun is breaking clean through the clouds, washing everything in gold.

I tilt my face up to it and close my eyes, letting it soak in.