Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Julianna
I love mornings. There’s something sacred about them, like the world is offering a quiet invitation to start fresh, to ground myself before the day barrels in with all its demands. The sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the studio, painting golden streaks across the polished hardwood floor. Dust motes swirl lazily in the light, capturing life’s small, unnoticed moments. I roll up my mat slowly, savoring the stillness, letting it settle deep into my bones.
This hour is mine—a sanctuary I’ve carved out in a world that never stops demanding more. It’s the calm before the flood of students, the endless stream of emails about adjustments and preferences, and the skeptical patients who seek my help yet doubt my advice, all pour through my office doors.
My reflection watches me from the mirror-lined wall. My dark hair is neatly braided, wisps clinging to my temples from the light sheen of sweat. My cheeks are flushed, my chest gently rising and falling. I look calm, composed. Steady. This version of me feels earned. She’s the person I decided to become after the corporate rat race spat me out, chewing up my energy and ambitions until I didn’t recognize myself anymore. That life was slowly tearing me apart. Dragging me to a place where I was lost in the grind and disconnected from the things that truly mattered.
Now, I choose differently. Now, I live life deliberately.
Slowly, I raise my arms overhead, feeling the stretch pull through my shoulders and into my back. My movements flow with a quiet rhythm. From Warrior Three, I extend my back leg fully, balancing on my right foot as my body leans forward, taut and steady. The muscles in my standing leg tremble faintly—alive, working. I breathe deeply, settling my gaze on a point ahead. The world narrows into that singular focus.
With intention, I shift, my movements fluid but deliberate. My arms sweep wide as I land in Warrior Two, hips opening, body grounding. My toes grip the floor as if anchoring me to this moment. My fingers stretch outward, and I imagine them pulling in strength from the space around me, like drawing sunlight into my skin.
The calm builds within me, layer by layer. Not forced, not performative, but earned in this exact moment.
There’s a flicker of doubt, uninvited but familiar, murmuring at the edges of my mind. Am I doing enough? Am I becoming enough? The questions linger, pressing and persistent, but I breathe through them, exhaling the grip they have on me.
This is why I do this—why I fight for mornings like this one. To find a calm place within the noise. To remember who I am before the world tries to shape me into someone else.
I roll my shoulders, a quiet release of tension, and move into my next pose, welcoming the flow of breath and body. My breath flows steady and rhythmic, grounding me—until the faint creak of the studio door breaks the fragile atmosphere I created.
Cold prickles at the back of my neck, irritation stirring as the interruption pulls me from my practice. I straighten, the stretch dissolving into tension I’d worked so hard to let go.
“Jules, sorry to interrupt you,” Simone, the receptionist, says. Her bright red hair is piled into a loose, messy bun that somehow looks like it belongs on a magazine cover, and she’s wearing one of those coordinated athleisure sets that make “effortless chic” look good on everyone but me.
“You’ve got a call from a lawyer and some letters.”
I pause, irritation softening into curiosity. “A lawyer?” I grab my water bottle as I head toward her, the shift from yoga tranquility to reality jolts my entire body.
“Yeah.” Simone’s nose scrunches as she tries to recall. “He had a lot to say. Something about needing to discuss something important. Urgent, even.”
Frowning, I take the phone from the counter, my heart already thudding a warning beat. Lawyers don’t call for casual chats. Did somebody sue me because I told them their child’s pose needed some work? Calm down, Julianna, this isn’t the corporate world.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Valencia, this is Richard Cole. I’m an attorney handling matters for your sister, Elena.”
My grip tightens on the phone. Elena. The name lands like a stone in a calm lake, sending ripples of old memories and unresolved wounds surging to the surface. “What’s this about?” I manage, my voice calmer than the storm brewing inside me.
Elena is very problematic and, well, irresponsible. If this guy wants to discuss something it is probably paying for her bail or . . . well, who cares. I should just hang up and let her deal with her issues. What did she tell me the last time we spoke? ‘Not my problem, go fuck yourself, Julie.’
“Listen, my sister and I?—”
“I regret to inform you that your sister is in the hospital and she doesn’t have much time left,” he cuts off my rant and the air seems to vanish from the room. My lungs stall, suspended somewhere between disbelief and dread. I hear the words, but they don’t fit—not with the image of Elena in my mind, defiant and vibrant, her presence impossible to ignore.
“You must be confused. Did you say, ‘Not much time’? what does that mean?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Yes,” Richard continues gently. “I’m so sorry to be the one giving you this news. There’s another matter we need to discuss. Your sister named you as the legal guardian for her daughter, Rayne.”
Rayne. The name cuts through the haze, sharp and piercing. The world narrows to that single word. Her daughter? My niece?
“Elena has a daughter?” The question slips out before I can stop it, the crack in my voice betraying the storm rising inside me.
“Yes,” he confirms, his tone cautious. “Rayne is six years old. She’s currently with a temporary caretaker, but per your sister’s wishes, arrangements need to be made for her transition to your care.”
The ground beneath me feels unsteady, like I’ve stepped onto unfamiliar terrain without warning. A niece I’ve never met. A sister I barely knew anymore.
“Ms. Valencia, I understand this is a lot to process. If you’re available, I’d like to go over the details in person.”
His voice fades into the background as the room seems to shrink around me. My throat tightens, a rush of emotions clawing their way to the surface—grief, anger, guilt, and something harder to name. Memories of Elena flash like snapshots: her laugh, her sharp wit, the countless arguments that pushed us further apart.
Simone steps closer, concern etched into her features, but I can’t meet her gaze. “I . . . I’ll need some time,” I say into the phone, the words coming out brittle and uneven. “She’s dying?”
How? When did she become a mom, and why didn’t she tell me? I mean obviously it was six years ago, but still. This . . . I can’t process any of this.
“I understand you need time to recoup,” Richard replies. “I’ll follow up shortly because your niece has to be with you. And maybe you can still see your sister before she passes.”
The line goes dead, and I lower the phone, my hand trembling. The studio feels too bright, too open, as if the walls are pressing in.
Simone places a hand on my arm, her voice soft. “Jules? Are you okay?”
I shake my head, the first tear slipping free before I can stop it. “No. I’m not okay.”
And I’m not sure I ever will be.