Chapter 19 She Sings
She Sings
Coleman
The girls didn’t say anything when they walked through the front door yesterday.
No excited rush of footsteps. No squeals or laughter echoing down the hall. Just two pairs of quiet feet, two heavy backpacks, and a silence so sharp it made the walls feel too loud.
Remi had texted that she was stuck in traffic. That she got behind after packing more of her things. That she was trying to get back before they arrived. I told them that she probably wouldn't be there when we got home. I set them up for the heartache.
When I saw her car in the driveway I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I thought it would bring the girls out of the funk they were in when I picked them up. I was wrong.
Remi looked gutted when the girls walked in and they weren't the same. She saw how quiet the house had become again.
She tried, God, she tried. Coaxed them with sweets. With soft voices and warm eyes. But they gave her nothing.
She thinks they’re mad at her.
She doesn’t understand that this is how they always are after Stella’s. That whatever version of themselves they’re allowed to be here—open, loud, unfiltered—it gets packed away in whatever bag Stella hands them when they get to her house.
I hate sending them there.
Every instinct I have tells me to fight it.
To keep them home where they’re loved for exactly who they are.
Not who someone else expects them to be.
So I called my attorney this morning. Told him about the comments Stella made last week.
About her telling the girls not to call her mom anymore.
About Paige clinging to me at drop-off and Payton going silent.
He told me to keep documenting. So I do. Every little shift. Every cold silence. Every subtle ache.
It’s early afternoon now. I’ve got showings scheduled in a few hours, but I hate the idea of leaving while the house feels like this—fractured. Off-balance.
I’m in my office staring at the same email for ten minutes when I hear the soft knock on the door.
Payton peeks her head in, her sketchpad clutched to her chest.
“What are you doing?” she asks, voice small.
I motion to the screen. “Pretending I know how to use Excel.”
Her mouth lifts just a little.
“You want to hang out with me while I work, Bug?”
She shrugs like she doesn’t care—but she crosses the room and curls into the armchair anyway, flipping open her sketchpad.
Fifteen minutes later, there’s the sound of a necklace clasp jingling and beads scattering, and Paige walks in without knocking. She climbs onto the floor beside the desk and starts sorting her collection like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Hey, Button,” I say with a smile. “You making anything fun?”
She nods. “A matching one for me and Payton. With stars.” She holds up two bracelets and then back down to her beads. “And one for Remi.” She grabs the extra beads like the after thought is the best thing in the world.
It’s quiet. Peaceful.
But then I see her—Remi. Walking past the office, her hair pulled into some loose twist on top of her head, hoodie sleeves pushed up her arms. She’s barefoot, like always, probably heading to the laundry room even though I told her that wasn’t her damn job.
She stops in the hallway.
Her eyes land on the three of us—me at my desk, the girls quiet and settled around me—and I see it in her face. That flicker of pain. That heaviness that sinks behind her eyes like she’s not sure she’ll ever be enough to pull them back to her.
I want to go to her.
More than anything.
I want to walk out there, wrap my arms around her, and kiss away every ounce of doubt she’s carrying. I want to tell her that she’s already changed their world. That I see it in the way Paige now reaches for people. In how Payton lingers longer before disappearing.
I want to tell her she makes this house feel like home.
But instead, I just lift my hand and give her a small nod—an invitation.
She shakes her head, a sad smile tugging at her lips, and walks on.
God, I hate it.
I hate that I don’t know how to make her see what she means to all of us.
I grip the edge of my desk like it’ll keep me grounded. Like it’ll stop me from chasing her down the hallway and kissing her until she believes she belongs here that loving me is safe.
She doesn’t.
Not yet.
So I sit back, watching the girls work, heart split in two—and then I hear it.
Soft, almost unsure at first, like a whisper pressed into the strings of a guitar.
It’s coming from the living room.
A gentle melody.
Then a few quiet chords.
Payton glances up from her sketchbook. Paige stops threading beads.
“Is that…?” Paige whispers.
“Remi,” Payton says before I can answer.
They don’t move right away. But I see it. The shift. The slow melting of the stiffness in their shoulders.
Because that’s Remi.
She doesn’t push. She doesn’t beg.
She sings.
And maybe that’s the only kind of magic strong enough to pull us all back together.