Chapter 5 Putting Down Roots #2
“We went to the park and fed ducks! One of them tried to eat Grandma’s shoe!” Hazel wriggles free, dashing off to explore the condo like a sugar-fueled realtor.
My mom steps through the doorway behind her, holding up a pizza box like a peace offering. “I thought you could use something hot and familiar.”
“Is that DeSano’s?” My stomach growls at the sight of the logo. “Dad’s favorite.”
“He always burned the roof of his mouth because he was too impatient to wait,” she says, placing the box on the kitchen counter with a smile.
I laugh. “After my first design showcase, he talked them into staying open late so we could eat there.”
“He could charm just about anyone.” Her voice dips softer, nostalgic. “Especially when it came to you girls.”
“He made people feel like they mattered.” The words catch somewhere in my throat, so I busy myself rifling through a box for paper plates.
“Mommy! Which one’s my room?” Hazel yells from the hallway.
“Second door on the right, baby—but don’t open any boxes without me!”
I hear a rip of packing tape.
Mom helps me unpack dishes, and for a while we work in comfortable silence, broken only by Hazel’s running commentary as she explores every corner of her new domain.
“It’s a good place,” she says eventually. “Great school district. The park nearby has a dance studio next to it, too.”
I nod. “I was thinking about enrolling Hazel in classes. Maybe ballet.”
“She’d love that. Just like you did.” Mom pauses, studying my face. “One of your old sketchbooks is in one of these boxes. Have you thought about designing again? Even just on the side?”
A tired laugh escapes me. “Between Left Turn and Hazel, I barely have time to sleep. Besides, that part of my life is over.”
“Nothing’s ever really over, honey. Just… paused.”
We’re interrupted again by my pint-sized tornado skidding into the kitchen. “Can we eat now? My tummy is saying feed me pizza or else!”
We sit on the floor, using moving boxes as tables. The pizza is exactly as I remember it—charred crust, tangy sauce, and melty comfort. Hazel takes a giant bite. “I like this better.”
“Don’t let your father hear you say that,” I tease, but the joke falls flat. Christian hasn’t called in two weeks. Luckily Hazel’s been too busy to notice.
Mom stays until the sky turns purple, helping me unpack enough to make the place livable. She wipes her hands on a paper towel and reaches for her purse.
“Have you seen Dylan since you’ve been back?” she asks, too casually.
I pause. “Briefly. At the industry mixer last month.”
Mom arches a brow but doesn’t say anything, just waiting me out.
“He offered to buy Left Turn,” I admit, watching her face carefully.
Her eyes widen. “Oh?”
I hesitate a little too long.
“Dad didn’t leave the company in the best shape,” I say, gauging whether she knew about the troubles or not. “We’re burning through our reserves faster than we’re bringing in revenue, and our biggest distribution deal is up for renegotiation.”
“He was under a lot of pressure the last year, before…” She trails off, her face clouding.
“Maxwell Kane from Anthem Records made an offer, but it’s basically buying our catalog and artist contracts. The staff would be gone within months.”
“What do you think?” she asks tentatively.
“I’m trying to turn it around. I don’t have Dad’s industry experience, but I do know how to spot talent and trends. My years in fashion taught me that. James is helping me understand the financials, and I’m learning fast.”
Her voice softens. “Would selling be so terrible? It’s a lot to carry, especially alone, and your father would never want you to…”
I pinch my head. “If I sell, everything Dad built—the loyalty, the people—it would vanish overnight.” I trail off, the hurt still fresh. “I thought Dylan would understand what this label means to me. To us. Instead, he sent over an acquisition proposal like I was just another business target.”
Mom studies me for a moment. “That doesn’t sound like Dylan.”
“Well, he’s not the same boy genius you remember from summer barbecues. He’s a smug, smiling, lip ring wearing, tattoo-sporting executive who’s way too full of himself,” I let out.
Mom smiles and I narrow my eyes at her. “Sounds like he might have rattled you a bit.”
I shove a dish towel into the drawer harder than necessary. “He’s trying to take my company. That’s what’s rattling me. He knows what Dad built here—what it means to me. To our family. I thought he’d be the one person who would help me.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I can’t forget how he looked at me at that mixer—like Left Turn was any another opportunity to expand his portfolio.”
“Even as kids, you and Dylan were always engaged in some competition. Whether it was a board game, or who could stuff the most jellybeans in their cheeks…”
“We’re not kids anymore.”
She lets it go, reaching for her purse.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay tonight?” she asks softly.
I smile lightly. “We need to figure it out on our own.”
She nods but doesn’t move. Her fingers hover over her keys like she’s waiting for an excuse not to leave.
“Feels weird going home to an empty house,” she admits. “I keep expecting to hear him humming in the kitchen or yelling at the TV like he’s calling plays for the Rams.”
I swallow hard. “I still expect his number to pop up on my phone every Sunday morning.”
“He’d be proud of you,” she says. “Even if he wouldn’t understand your shoe budget.”
I smile. “He always said you two were my first investors.”
“Well,” she sighs, “returns were unpredictable.”
We laugh together. And for a moment, I’m less like a daughter stepping into a father’s shadow and more like a woman walking beside the people who shaped her.
After one last round of hugs and kisses, she’s gone, leaving us alone in our new reality.
I find Hazel stacking boxes and naming them things like Princess Tower and Captain Sparkle’s Castle. I watch her—so full of joy, so endlessly imaginative—so resilient.
“What now?” I ask, mostly to myself.
She throws her arms in the air. “Dance!”
I laugh. “You know what? Dancing is exactly what we need.”
I cue up some music—something fast and bright. Ivy Nova’s latest hit pulses through the space. Hazel’s favorite. “Turn it up!” she yells, so I do.
We spin through the living room, dodging boxes and tangled cords, Hazel in her princess nightgown, me in an old tank top and leggings.
We dance between wrapped furniture, making up silly moves and laughing at our reflections in the windows.
She twirls with wild abandon. Her giggles echo off the bare walls.
For the length of the song, the weight lifts. We aren’t just surviving. We’re beginning.
The song changes to something slower, but Hazel keeps dancing, now making up her own lyrics about princesses and pizza.
I watch her, a soft ache unfurling inside me.
This condo, this city, this life—it might not be what I planned, but that’s okay.
Sometimes the best things grow from broken concrete, pushing up through the cracks until they find the light.