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It took me a long time to realize that while Mom and I might resemble each other, last night, we were strangers in a strange house with no idea what to do or say to each other.
The awkwardness was unexpected. But the sadness? The not knowing when or even if I’ll see Cian, Kylian, and Rune again? That was the reason I spent most of last night crying in my nest. I expect tonight to go much the same way.
Overwhelmed by a refrigerator full of food, we’d settled on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches washed down with big glasses of milk, followed by an early night. And even though I had a nicely made-up bed, probably courtesy of Hali and Nancy, I’d crawled right into my closet nest, needing comfort instead.
Sleep didn’t come as easily to me as it had in Pack Ashe’s mansion.
I’d wake up, tiptoe down the hallway to this same door, and press my ear to the wood to listen to the woman softly snoring inside.
I’d needed to reassure myself I hadn’t dreamed everything up.
Now that I think of it, I don’t hear any soft snoring, and there’s a slight cool air brushing my ankles.
Closing my hand around the door handle, I push it open. The room is empty, the bedsheets rumpled. Mom at least slept in the bed, unlike me.
I inhale her faded sweet mint and candy apple scent. Smiling, I pull the door closed and go looking for my mom.
* * *
She’s in the backyard, sketchpad in her lap, pencil flying over the paper with her long blonde hair shielding her face.
It’s like looking at myself.
Strange.
A faint smile pulls on my lips as I watch her sitting in the middle of our surprisingly large and tranquil backyard filled with soft, sweet-smelling grass. There’s a rose bush with pink roses and a brown bench along one fence wall. She’s even wearing one of the summer dresses Hali bought for me.
Cian, Rune, and Kylian must have known once they took me to see Mom at the clinic, I would leave them. From the packed refrigerator, my closet nest, and all my clothes packed neatly in my dresser, they did everything they could to make this house ready for me.
I want to go see what she’s drawing, maybe ask her if she’s an artist, but I don’t want to interrupt her. This is her first day of freedom. If she came out here to draw, she must want to be alone.
Turning around, I prepare to go back inside. I’m reaching for the door when she calls out,
“You can join me if you want.”
I glance over my shoulder. Mom still has her head bent over her sketchpad as a slight wind tugs on her tresses.
“What are you drawing?” I ask after watching her for a moment.
She shrugs. “Anything that catches my eye. A bird. A leaf. Anything.”
I choke back the need to cry. “I used to do the same thing.”
Her head whips up, and she stares at me, hazel-green eyes wide with surprise. “You draw?”
I nod. “I never knew where my love came from. Not until now.”
Her answering smile is sweet and a little rusty. Not crooked like Cian’s, but it’s clear—at least to me—she hasn’t smiled in a while. I guess she never had much of a reason to in the clinic. “It came from me.”
“I can get my sketchpad,” I offer.
“Okay.” Her smile widens.
I sprint up the stairs, grab the sketchpad and the pencil the three alphas packed alongside it, and hurry back downstairs to the garden.
She hasn’t moved. I find her sitting with her legs folded right in the middle of the garden and her head angled my way.
I drop to the grass beside her, setting my sketchpad on my lap. The only thing in it is the sketch I did of Rune. My old sketchpad, the one I loved so much and that fell in the garden a year ago, is gone. Probably forever.
