Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Emma
" H e's afraid I'll leave again," I say, watching steam rise from my tea. "And I don't know how to prove I won't."
Hazel's kitchen feels like stepping back in time—same cheerful yellow curtains, same collection of mismatched teacups, same wisdom waiting to be shared over Earl Grey and honey. She slides a plate of gingersnaps across her worn oak table.
"Can you prove it?" she asks gently. "The future's not something we can guarantee, dear."
I trace the rim of my cup, remembering the way Andrew stepped back from our kiss, the flash of panic in his eyes. "I thought after the art event at Novel Sips, things were different. Better." I manage a weak smile. "Charlie's already planning the next one. He wants to do dragons."
"Ah, but this isn't about Charlie, is it?" Hazel's knowing gaze sees right through me, just like it did when I was a struggling teenage artist. "Andrew's relationship with his son is one thing. His relationship with you..."
"Is complicated." I pull out my sketchbook, a habit I've never broken when processing emotions. As I talk, my pencil moves across the paper of its own accord. "When he kisses me, it's like no time has passed. Like we're still those kids who thought love could conquer anything."
"But time has passed." Hazel sips her tea thoughtfully. "You've both grown. Changed."
"Have we?" The question slips out before I can stop it. On my paper, delicate lines begin to form—the soft sphere of a dandelion gone to seed. "Because sometimes I feel just as lost as I was at twenty-four. Just as scared of making the wrong choice."
"The wrong choice?" Her eyebrows lift. "Or the right choice for the wrong reasons?"
My pencil stills. "What do you mean?"
"When you left," she says carefully, "were you running away from Andrew? Or running toward something you needed to discover about yourself?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. In my sketchbook, the dandelion's seeds begin to scatter across the page, some breaking free, others still clinging to their core. "I needed to know if I could make it on my own," I whisper. "If my art was more than just dreams."
"And now?"
"Now I know that success means nothing without people to share it with." I look down at my drawing, at the seeds floating across the paper. "That some dreams are worth more than others."
Hazel reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "Then perhaps that's what Andrew needs to understand. Not just that you won't leave, but that you know what you're staying for."
Something shifts in my chest as I study my sketch. The dandelion's core stands strong despite its scattered seeds, new buds already forming beneath. "When Charlie makes wishes," I say slowly, "he believes in them completely. No doubt. No fear."
"The wisdom of children." Hazel smiles. "They haven't learned to guard their hearts yet."
My pencil moves again, adding detail to the drawing. "Andrew guards his so carefully now. Everything in its place, everything controlled." I think of his precise book arrangements, his carefully planned events. "Except when he's with Charlie. Or when he forgets to be careful with me."
"Love's like your dandelions there," Hazel observes, nodding at my sketch. "Resilient. Wild. Impossible to control completely." She taps the scattered seeds I've drawn. "Some dreams need to fly free before they can take root and grow stronger."
I stare at my drawing, seeing it with new eyes. The scattered seeds don't look lost anymore—they look like possibilities, coming full circle. "I want to show him," I say suddenly. "Not tell him—show him. With art."
"Now that sounds like the Emma I know." Hazel's eyes twinkle. "What are you thinking?"
I flip to a clean page, sketching quickly as the idea takes shape. "A series. Dandelions in different stages. But not just flowers—symbols. About growth and change and coming home." The images flow faster than I can capture them. "About how sometimes you have to let go of something to let it grow into something stronger."
"And you think this will help him understand?"
I remember how Andrew used to spend hours in my studio, watching me paint. How he always saw the meaning behind my abstract pieces, even when others didn't. "He still speaks art," I say softly. "I see it in how he arranges his books, how he creates spaces for stories to come alive. Maybe this is a language we can both trust."
Hazel sits back, satisfaction clear on her face. "Well then, dear. I'd say you have some painting to do."
Later, as I set up my easel in the spare room of our rental house, I pin my sketchbook drawing to the wall. The dandelion's scattered seeds seem to dance across the paper, simultaneously reaching out and returning home.
"What are you making, Mama?" Charlie peers around the door, clutching his latest dragon drawing.
I smile, pulling him close. "Something special. For your dad."
"Can I help?"
I press a kiss to his dark curls, so like Andrew's. "Actually, buddy, I think you already have."
"Andrew will kill me if he finds out I let anyone in after hours," Maggie whispers, unlocking Novel Sips' front door. "Even if it is you."
"I promise to take full responsibility if he finds his books out of alphabetical order." I adjust the wrapped canvas under my arm. "I just need five minutes."
Maggie's eyes soften as she flips on just the entrance lights, leaving the shop in gentle shadows. "He's been different, you know. Since you came back." She clicks the door shut behind us. "Less rigid."
The late evening quiet of Novel Sips wraps around me like a familiar blanket. No customers browsing the shelves, no espresso machine humming, no Charlie's excited voice echoing through the stacks. Just books and memories and the weight of what I'm about to do.
"I'll wait out here," Maggie says softly, taking a seat in one of the reading chairs.
I make my way to Andrew's office, where order reigns supreme. His desk calendar is open to tomorrow’s date, his files perfectly aligned. But there, pinned carefully to his bulletin board, is Charlie's family drawing. He must have rescued it from the children’s section and put it here. The sight of it gives me courage.
My hands shake slightly as I prop the canvas against his desk. The dandelion series came together faster than any piece I've done since college—three panels showing the progression from bud to bloom to seed, with fragments of text and memory worked into the background. Paint and pencil and pieces of old sketches I'd kept of Andrew, all woven together into something new.
The letter is harder. I've rewritten it six times, trying to find the right words. Finally, I pull it from my bag and smooth it against his desk.
Dear Andrew,
There are so many things I want to say to you. About how sorry I am for leaving the way I did. About how much I've missed you every single day. About how watching you with Charlie makes me fall in love with you all over again.
But mostly I want to tell you about dandelions.
Everyone calls them weeds, but they're really wishes in disguise. They bloom where they're planted, bright and stubborn. And when it's time, they let their seeds fly free—not because they want to leave, but because sometimes things need to scatter before they can grow stronger.
I scattered. I flew away believing I needed to prove something to myself. And maybe I did. But what I learned out there wasn't about art or success or finding myself. What I learned was that home isn't a place you run from. It's the place you keep coming back to, again and again, until your roots grow so deep nothing can move them.
You are my home, Andrew. You and Charlie and this beautiful life we could build together. I know you're scared. I'm scared too. But maybe that's okay. Maybe being scared just means we know how precious this is.
I painted this piece to show you what I see when I look at us—not what we lost, but what we could become. How love can transform from closed bud to open flower to scattered seeds and back again, stronger each time.
I'm not asking for answers. I just want you to know that I'm here. That I choose you—careful, methodical, wonderful you—and all the beautiful ways you've grown while I was gone. That I choose us, complications and fears and all.
The rest is up to you.
All my love, Emma
I set the letter against the canvas, then step back. In the dim light, the paintings seem to glow softly—yellow blooms against deep blue backgrounds, scattered seeds catching imaginary light. Like stars. Like wishes. Like possibilities.
My fingers brush Charlie's drawing as I turn to leave. In it, we're all holding hands, surrounded by those simple crayon dandelions. Our son saw the truth before either of us. Family isn't about perfect order or guaranteed futures. It's about choosing each other, again and again.