“We could plant something today,” he adds, the suggestion so tentative it barely lands. “You know, for her.”
Cassie looks to me for permission.
I nod, and the smallest of smiles sneaks onto her face, gone in an instant but still there.
“Okay,” she says. “I guess.”
It’s not forgiveness, not exactly. But it’s something.
Nathan grins. “I’ll get the gloves.”
When he leaves the room, Cassie looks at me, her walls dropped for just a breath.
“You’re really happy with him,” she says. Not a question. A dare.
I want to be honest. I want to be brave, like Sara said.
“I’m trying,” I say. “Some days, it’s easier than others.”
Cassie stares at her cereal, then stirs it with the spoon until the colors are indistinguishable.
“Okay,” she says again, even softer.
Nathan’s laugh echoes from the hallway. I can picture him fumbling with the garden shed, cursing under his breath, determined to win her over one awkward moment at a time.
I gather the dishes, stacking them in the sink, and watch as Cassie steps out onto the porch. Sunlight catches the edge of her hair, and she stands there, arms folded, waiting for whatever comes next.
I usedto think the hardest part of being a mother was sleeplessness, the way it rendered you raw and brittle, an exposed nerve walking around in borrowed skin. I was wrong. The hardest part is hope. You plant it in the best dirt you can find, water it with every last molecule of wanting, and then wait—knowing the frost could come at any time, that something hungry might burrow in and hollow it out.
The garden is a testament to both: weeds and wildflowers, thriving side by side. Sara’s fingerprints are everywhere, on the cracked ceramic gnome that guards the strawberry bed, the shell wind chimes strung above the rain barrel, the clusters of bluebells that only she could coax from the stubborn sand. I kneel in the damp earth and try not to think about what it means to love something so much it hurts.
Nathan is already at work, sleeves rolled up, dirt smudged across the bridge of his nose like a battle stripe. He moves with careful efficiency, digging small holes for the flats of marigoldsand morning glories we bought at the roadside stand. Every few minutes, he glances at me as if afraid I might dissolve.
Cassie trails us, carrying a bag of bulbs, but mostly she just drags her feet, leaving deep furrows in the mulch. She won’t make eye contact, but I catch her staring at Nathan’s back, her expression complicated and unreadable.
I try for normalcy. “Cass… I mean, Cassie, can you pass me the trowel?”
She sets it on the ground next to me, as if proximity itself might be contagious.
“Thanks,” I say, and she shrugs, then busies herself picking slugs off the hostas and flicking them into the grass.
A bead of sweat slips down my temple, stinging in the open cut above my eyebrow, the remnant of an argument with the attic hatch last week. I wipe it away with the hem of my sleeve and focus on the rhythm of work.
Nathan crouches beside me, balancing a tray of pansies. “I read somewhere that these help keep bugs away,” he says, nudging the edge of a joke.
I give him half a smile. “Sara would say you’re full of it.”
We work quietly. Above us, the clouds stack up like wet laundry, promising rain but not quite delivering. Cassie circles the periphery, every motion telegraphing her reluctance to belong.
Then it happens.
Nathan reaches for the trowel at the same time Cassie does, their hands colliding in the dirt. Cassie jerks back as if stung, the bag of bulbs tumbling from her grip and scattering like spilled secrets. She knocks over a potted fern, the clay shattering on the flagstone.
“Shit,” she says, too loud.
I start to say, “It’s okay,” but Cassie cuts me off, voice trembling.
“This isn’t even your house!” she yells at Nathan, fists balled at her sides. “You can’t just…come in and pretend like it is.”