Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Julianna
The room is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Moonlight filters through the gap in the curtains, casting faint patterns on the wooden floor. The air carries a trace of lavender, the same scent I sprayed earlier to chase away the lingering smell of paint. It’s late, the silence deep enough that even the faint creaks of the house settling seem loud, mingling with the rhythm of my unsteady breaths.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, my back resting against the headboard. The blankets are pulled up around me, though they do little to warm the chill that seeps through the walls. Across the hall, Rayne is finally asleep—or at least, I hope she is. Ever since she found me crying for Mom, something between us has shifted. She lets me sit closer, doesn’t pull away as quickly, and even meets my eyes sometimes. It feels fragile, like balancing something delicate in my hands, hoping not to let it slip.
In my lap is one of the letters Mom left me. It felt like a night to read something from her, something that I should’ve read years ago. The paper is soft, worn at the edges, and my name is written on the front in my mother’s looping handwriting. The ink, though faded, still carries her essence. My fingers hover over the envelope, tracing the familiar lines, but I can’t bring myself to open it. Not yet.
I glance toward the window. Outside, the lake reflects the moonlight in shifting ripples. This letter feels like a tether to something I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
I press my fingers to the seal, hesitating for a moment before peeling it open. The tape crumbles easily, the paper crackling softly as I slide the letter free. A knot forms in my stomach as I unfold it, the edges catching the lamplight.
My dearest Julianna,
First of all, I want you to know how much I love you. I hope these letters find you at a time when you need them most, when my voice can offer you comfort or guidance.
When I had Elena, I was so scared. She was so small, so fragile, and I felt like I was completely unprepared. Her father had just passed, and the grief was suffocating. I didn’t think I could do it—raise a baby on my own. But somehow, we managed. One day at a time.
When you have your first child you’re probably going to be scared. Feel like you can’t do it. I want you to know that it’s okay to feel scared. It’s okay to feel like you don’t have all the answers. No one does. Being a mother is hard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s also the most beautiful.
There will be days when it seems like you’re falling short, when the burden of it all seems too much to carry. But I promise you, those moments don’t define you. What matters is the love you give, the effort you put in, and the way you keep showing up, even when it’s hard.
My fingers tighten around the paper, the words striking deeper than I expected. She could have written these yesterday, for me, for this exact moment. I think of Rayne, of how far she’s retreated into herself, so far that I can barely reach her. Every single day since I took her in, I’ve questioned whether I’m enough for her, whether I’m doing any of this right. Mom’s words are a reminder, steadying me against the flood of doubt threatening to pull me under.
Elena was my first, and I made mistakes. So many mistakes. I was impatient when I should’ve been understanding. I was strict when I should’ve been soft. But I learned. She taught me how to be a mother, just as you and Oscar did in your own ways. Each of you brought something different out of me, something I didn’t know I had.
Elena was always so headstrong, even as a baby. She’d cry for hours if I left the room, and nothing I did seemed to soothe her. I remember one night, I was so exhausted I sat on the floor beside her crib and cried. And then she stopped. Just like that. She reached through the bars and grabbed my hand, and in that moment, it was like she was telling me, ‘I’ve got you too, Mom.’
Julianna, you have always been my constant. You were the quiet observer, the one who noticed everything, even when you were small. You had this incredible way of understanding people, of sensing what they needed before they did. That’s a gift, my love. But it’s also a heavy responsibility. You take on so much, and I worry that you don’t leave enough room for yourself.
When you become a mother, whether by choice or by circumstance, you’ll learn that it’s not about being perfect. It’s about showing up, day after day, even when it feels impossible. It’s about love, Julianna. That’s all that matters in the end.
I hope I showed up for you. Even when I might’ve failed you in the end, please know it was out of love.
Always,
Mom
I’m not sure what she’s talking about when she says she failed me. She never did. Tears blur the words, and I don’t bother wiping them away this time. I let them fall, let the emotions wash over me as I sit there, holding the pieces of Mom’s wisdom in my hands. She’s gone, just gone, and tonight her absence is crushing me. But right now I feel her here. I feel her love, her strength, her belief in me.
I fold the letter carefully and place it back in the envelope before I put it back in the bundle, tying the ribbon with shaking fingers. There are more letters, more pieces of her waiting for me, but I can’t open them yet. Not today. Today, I’ll hold on to this one, to her voice telling me that I’m enough, even when I don’t believe it.