Walk Don’t Run
WALK DON’T RUN
NORA
Mom's house sits exactly the way I remember it—white clapboard, blue shutters, the porch swing Nick installed the summer before I left still swaying gently in the breeze. The garden is immaculate as always, Mom's way of keeping her hands busy when she’s not down at the clinic.
I stand at the gate for a moment, gathering courage I shouldn't need to see my own mother, then push through and climb the familiar steps.
Mom's house smells like coffee and warm bread when I step inside, and the comfort of it almost breaks me. This kitchen, this light, this feeling of safety—it's what I've been missing without realizing it.
She's at the stove, her back to me, and when she turns, her whole face lights up.
"Nora! I didn't know you were coming by."
“Hope that’s okay.”
She pulls me into a hug without hesitation, and I hold on maybe a little too long. “It’s always okay.”
When I pull back, her eyes are already searching mine with that maternal radar that misses nothing.
"Everything okay, sweetheart?"
I nod, but we both know it's a lie.
She guides me to the kitchen table without another word.
"Coffee?"
"Please."
She pours two cups, sets one in front of me, and settles into the chair across from me with the patience of someone who knows not to rush whatever's coming.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, staring into it like it might have answers.
"I'm sorry," I start. "For disappearing. For not coming home more. For letting everything in LA consume me so completely that I forgot—"
My voice catches.
"That I forgot what matters."
"Nora." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You don't need to apologize for building a life. For being successful. Your dad would be so proud of what you've accomplished."
The mention of Dad makes my eyes burn.
"Would he? Or would he be disappointed that I let work and... and everything else come before family? Before the people who actually love me?"
She reaches across the table, takes both my hands in hers, her grip warm and steady.
My pulse slows slightly while the tightness in my chest eases.
"Hey, honey, no. Listen to me." Her voice is soft but insistent, carrying the weight of maternal wisdom and unconditional love.
"Your father never measured success by how much time you spent in one place or another.
He measured it by whether you were living a life that made you feel alive.
Whether you were being true to yourself. "
She squeezes my hands gently.
"He'd also tell you that none of the success in the world means anything if you're not happy. So..." She pauses, her eyes searching mine. "Are you happy?"
So many people have asked me that question and the answer should be simple.
"I thought I was," I say quietly. "Or I thought I should be. I have everything I worked for—the books, the titles, the movie deal, a fiancé who's successful and ambitious and—"
"And?" Mom prompts gently when I trail off.
"And cheating."
The words come out flat, matter-of-fact.
"What?" Shock spreads across Mom's face like wildfire, her eyes widening. "What do you mean cheating?"
"Camilla sent me something this morning. Someone caught him with another woman. At a restaurant, getting into a car, kissing her. Google it. I’m sure it’s everywhere by now.
Mom’s silence says everything.
“But the weird thing is..." I look up at her. "I'm not devastated. I'm... relieved. And what does that say about me?"
Her expression shifts—the shock fading into something deeper, more understanding.
She doesn't let go of my hands.
"It says you already knew something was wrong, honey. You just needed confirmation. Sometimes our hearts know the truth long before our heads are ready to accept it."
"I haven't worn my engagement ring at all since I got here," I confess. "I told myself it was because I didn't want people asking questions, because I wanted Mia and Ollie's shower to be about them. But..."
I shake my head.
"Nate asked me about it yesterday. Asked why I wasn't wearing it.
And I completely lost it on him because he was right.
Because saying the truth out loud, spoken by him of all people, made it impossible to ignore anymore.
I don't want to marry Wes. I haven't wanted to for a while now. And admitting that feels like failing."
"Failing at what?"
"At having my life together. At being the successful, put-together person everyone thinks I am.
" The words tumble out faster now. "I'm supposed to have it all figured out by now.
And instead, I'm here, hiding in Eden, staying in my ex's cabin, questioning every choice I've made in the last five years. "
Mom is quiet for a moment, letting my words settle.
Then she releases one of my hands to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture so tender it makes my throat tight.
"Can I tell you something your dad used to say?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"He'd always say, 'Kat, the only failure is staying in a place that makes you small.
'" She smiles softly at the memory, her eyes distant for a moment.
"He meant it about jobs, mostly—he changed careers three times before he found the one that fit.
But it applies to everything. Relationships.
Cities. Versions of yourself that don't serve you anymore.
The only real failure is shrinking yourself to fit into a life that was never meant for you. "
"Mom, I don't know who I am anymore," I whisper.
"I thought I did. But being back here, seeing how much has changed, how much everyone has grown and moved forward while I've just been...
" I gesture helplessly. "Running. I've been running from everything that hurt, and I thought I was building something better, but maybe I was just building better walls. "
"And Nate?" Mom asks carefully, her thumb stroking the back of my hand. "How does he fit into all this?"
My chest tightens at his name.
"He doesn't. He shouldn't. Five years ago he made it very clear there was no future for us. That what we had was toxic and delusional and—"
I stop, the old hurt rising up like bile.
"And now he's here, being kind and understanding and asking questions that make me face things I don't want to face."
Mom’s eyes never leave mine. When she speaks again, her voice carries the weight of years and wisdom and a mother's fierce love.
"You know what I see when I look at you right now?"
"A mess?"
"I see a woman who's finally being honest with herself. I see my daughter—brilliant, brave, more capable than she gives herself credit for—who's been living according to a script she wrote when she was hurt and afraid and running from her own heart."
She leans forward, her intensity undeniable.
"Nora, you've spent years building a life you thought you were supposed to want.
But somewhere along the way, you stopped checking in with yourself.
Stopped asking if that's what you actually want.
If it makes your soul sing. If it makes you feel like yourself instead of some polished version designed for public consumption. "
"How do I even know what would make me happy?" The question comes out desperate, raw.
My hands tremble slightly in hers.
"I thought I knew. But now—"
"Now you're remembering what it felt like to want something so badly it scared you," Mom finishes gently.
"That's not a bad thing, sweetie. That's not failure or weakness or confusion.
That's being alive. That's being human. That's your heart reminding you that you're allowed to want things that don't make sense on paper.
You're allowed to choose passion over pragmatism. You're allowed to feel."
I stare at her, feeling the truth of it settle into my bones, rearranging everything I thought I knew.
"I'm not telling you what to do," she continues, her voice softening.
"About any of it. Those are your decisions to make.
But I am telling you that you need to stop living for everyone else's expectations—including your own outdated ones.
You're allowed to change your mind. You're allowed to want different things than you wanted five years ago.
You're allowed to choose yourself, even if it disappoints people.
Even if it means admitting you were wrong about what you needed. "
"What if I choose wrong again?” My voice is small, afraid.
"Then you'll learn and choose differently next time.
" She squeezes my hands again, grounding me.
"But staying in something that makes you miserable because you're afraid of making the wrong choice?
That's not living, Nora. That's just existing.
That's letting fear drive while your heart sits in the passenger seat watching life pass by.
And you deserve more than that. You deserve to feel alive. "
The words wrap around me, warm and insistent and exactly what I needed to hear even if I didn't know it.
We sit in silence for a moment, morning light streaming through the windows, the smell of bread and coffee and home filling the space between us.
"I need to end things with Wes," I say finally. "Properly. Not because of the photos or because he got caught. Because I don't want to marry him. Because it's not right and hasn't been for a while and I've been too afraid to admit it."
Mom nods. "That sounds like a good first step."
"And then I need to figure out what I actually want. Who I actually am when I'm not trying to be what everyone expects."
"Also a good step."
I take a breath, feeling lighter somehow despite the chaos.
"Thank you. For this. For not judging me for being such a mess."
"You're not a mess, my love. You're just human." She stands, moves around the table to pull me into another hug. "And you're exactly where you're supposed to be right now. Trust that. Trust yourself. Trust that it's okay to not have all the answers yet."
I hold onto her, letting myself be small and uncertain and loved anyway.
Letting myself believe that maybe she's right—that this falling apart is actually the beginning of putting myself back together.
The right way this time.
When I get back to the cabin, I notice Nate's car is gone from where it was parked earlier.
But there, on the small table on the porch, is a coffee and a small paper bag that I already know contains cinnabons from his Corrigan’s bakery.
There's a note tucked under the mug, written on the back of what looks like a receipt in his familiar scrawl:
Sorry if it's cold by the time you get home.
— N
The coffee isn't cold and neither are the cinnamon rolls.
Which means he was here maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago at most. Which means he's been paying attention to my routines and knows roughly when I take my morning runs.
I sit down on the porch steps with my coffee and cinnamon roll, the morning sun warm on my face, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself feel it.
Not just the gratitude for the gesture, though that's there too.
But the possibility.
That home might be more than just a place I left behind. It might be the place I've been trying to find my way back to all along.