Chapter 49
Madison
That evening, after Olive was tucked into bed with her Bunny clutched under one arm, I sat at the little kitchen table in the guest house and stared at the papers the contractor had given me.
A final checklist. A signature line. A note about paint curing and warranties.
All of it should have been reassuring. For weeks, I had prayed for this news, that the house would be fixed, that Olive and I could go home.
But the truth pressed hard in my chest. When we walked through it earlier, it didn't feel like home.
The walls were smooth again, fresh coats of pale yellow covering the stains the storm had left behind.
The roof was new, the windows clear and strong.
Everything gleamed with the kind of perfection that only comes after repair.
And yet, the moment I stepped inside, a chill crept over me.
It felt empty. Too clean. Like someone had copied the shape of our house but left out the soul.
I should have been relieved. Instead, I had wanted to leave.
I rubbed at my temple, trying to untangle the knot in my head.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe I was clinging too tightly to the rhythm of these last weeks at Seth’s place.
But when I looked around the guesthouse, at Olive’s crayon drawings taped haphazardly to the refrigerator, at the books stacked by the couch, at the coffee mugs drying in the rack where Seth had washed them after dinner, this felt more like home than the house we had toured earlier.
A lump rose in my throat.
I thought back to the kitchen, the place where I had stood for hours after the storm, trying to clean up the damage.
The ceiling had buckled, water dripping down the cabinets.
Olive had sat at the table with wide eyes, asking if the house was sick.
Today, that same kitchen gleamed, new and whole.
But I couldn’t shake the ghost of that memory.
And maybe that was it. Maybe I couldn’t separate the house from the storm anymore. Maybe too much had shifted, too much had changed.
I pressed my hands flat against the table, staring at the papers.
Seth had been quiet during the walkthrough, his face careful, his voice steady when he asked about reinforcement beams and drainage.
But when I told him it didn’t feel the same, I saw something in his eyes.
Relief. Understanding. And something deeper, something that matched the ache in me.
Olive stirred in the other room, her sleepy voice drifting through the half-open door. “Mommy?”
I went to her, smoothing her curls as she blinked up at me.
“Are we going home tomorrow?” she mumbled.
The question pierced me. I hesitated, stroking her hair. “Not tomorrow, O. Soon.”
She yawned, already fading back into sleep. “I like it here.”
Her words broke me open. I kissed her forehead and whispered, “Me too.”
Back at the table, I poured myself a glass of water and stared out the window at the main house. The porch light was on, spilling a soft glow across the steps. I could just make out Seth’s shadow through the screen door. He was there. He was always there.
My house might be ready, but I wasn’t sure I wanted it anymore.
Because the truth was simple and terrifying. Home didn’t feel like paint and shingles. Home felt like Seth Cunningham. And the thought of leaving that behind was the first thing in years that truly scared me.