Alicia
Last night was the final performance. Three nights of The Crucible, and Stella held her own in every one.
The house feels different in the morning.
Not quieter—our house was always quiet—but lighter, as if the walls themselves have unclenched. Sunlight filters through the bedroom windows in soft ribbons, catching on the steam rising from my mug. The scent of chamomile curls around me, warm and soothing, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to break.
Stella’s upstairs packing for the weekend. We agreed to get away for a few days, and it’ll allow Noah to check in on his dad. I can hear her singing, something bright and melodic, the kind of tune she only falls into when her world feels steady again.
I sit on the edge of the bed and inhale slowly.
This is what peace feels like.
Familiar. Elusive. Fragile.
But present.
I wrap both hands around my mug, letting its heat seep into my fingers, grounding me.
That night still lives in flashes behind my eyes—the gun, the trembling of Jessica’s hand, Noah’s voice cutting through the chaos, the way he protected me with his body before the police arrived. But the fear doesn’t choke me anymore. It simply lingers, a memory rather than a threat.
And beneath it, something else—relief so deep it sits like an ache.
The stairs creak. Stella appears in my bedroom doorway with a duffel slung over her shoulder and a stack of folded sweaters in her arms.
“Do we need warm stuff?” she asks. “New Jersey’s colder, right?”
“Temps about the same as here. But yes. Pack warm.”
She dumps the sweaters into her bag with a dramatic sigh. Three performances in three days, and she’s still moving at full speed. I smile, stepping in to help her zip the duffel.
“How are you feeling?” I ask gently.
Stella shrugs, but it’s a thoughtful, measured shrug—one that belongs to a girl trying to sort through something difficult and figure out where to place it. “Better than the other night,” she says. “It was scary. But no one got hurt. And they took her away.”
Her voice softens on the last sentence.
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry you had to see any of it.”
“I know.” She looks up at me, her eyes clear. “But Mom? You handled it. Like…you didn’t freak out. You stayed calm. That helped me stay calm too.”
The words mean more than she knows. For a moment, I’m struck by how quickly she’s growing. How much she sees. How much she understands without needing it explained.
“Come here,” I whisper.
She steps into my arms without hesitation. I hold her close, breathing in the faint scent of strawberry shampoo.
“You are so incredibly brave,” I say against her hair. “And I promise—you’re safe.”
“I know,” she murmurs.
When she pulls back, she wipes her cheeks with her sleeve like nothing happened and grabs her duffel. “Do you think Noah’s dad will like me?”
I smile. “He’ll love you.”
“And what about…Noah’s…um…other family? His stepmom?”
“Linda will adore you,” I say confidently. “She can’t wait to meet you.”