Chapter 35
Thirty-five
Addie
I stand in the middle of the house on Black Bear Vineyard and try to orient myself to this version of my life I didn’t agree to.
Everywhere I look, there are boxes. Stacked neatly.
Labeled carefully. Yesterday afternoon, Luc drove me over to the vineyard to collect a few more things.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it really was like Sera said.
All the stuff from my apartment had been unpacked and put away.
Yet it didn’t feel like a home at all. At least not my home.
Today, the movers are repacking everything, and they’re nearly done now. It costs a pretty penny, and it’s a needless expense, as this never should have happened, but it will be worth it.
I stop in the doorway of what was supposed to be the nursery. The light is wrong. Flat. On the walls are red and black pictures against a neutral beige. Safe. Unoffensive.
I remember myself in my apartment—barefoot, paint on my arms, music playing while I worked. I remember thinking how strange and hopeful it felt to create something permanent in a space meant for a future I hadn’t fully realized yet. And now that’s all gone, intended to be replaced by this. No.
Evie didn’t just pack my things. She tried to rewrite my story, as if my life were a problem she could solve by rearranging it.
I step back into the main room and rest my hand on one of the boxes.
I’m moving into Luc’s house. After seeing all he’s done to prepare for our baby, I know it’s the right move, at least for now.
He’s focusing his attention on being ready for the part of this that belongs to him.
What more could I ask? I’ve realized I need to do the same.
And so, these are my things and my choices.
Outside, a team is loading a truck. I draw in a slow breath and let it out carefully. The front door opens without a knock, but I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. The sound of her heels on the hardwood is unmistakable.
“What are you doing?” Evie demands.
I face her then. She’s dressed impeccably, raincoat on, sunglasses pushed up into her hair like she plans to be in and out. Her gaze flicks past me, cataloguing the boxes, the open doors, the disruption.
“I’m supervising the movers,” I explain. “They’re taking my things where they belong.”
Her mouth tightens. “You’re staying here, where you’ll be taken care of.”
That’s the line she always reaches for first. The one that makes her sound reasonable.
I shake my head. “That’s the problem. That isn’t what I want or need. We’ve had this conversation, and I thought I was clear. I’m not living here.”
She exhales sharply, impatience bleeding through her polished exterior. “Addie, this is unnecessary. You couldn’t manage any of this, so I handled it. That’s what families do.”
I feel something tighten in me at the word handled. I resent the assumption underneath it.
“You moved my entire apartment without talking to me,” I say. “You had my mural painted over.”
Her expression barely flickers. “Your apartment would have been miserable with a stroller.”
“It wasn’t your decision to make.”
She looks away. Evie has always preferred confrontation when she’s the one directing it. This isn’t that.
“I did what needed to be done,” she says finally. “You were distracted. Emotional. Someone had to make decisions.”
I feel hot fury smoldering inside me. She did this because I wasn’t moving fast enough? Because I was trying to figure out what I wanted before I chose a path forward? I open my mouth to protest, to tell her she doesn’t understand me at all, but then I close it.
It doesn’t matter. Evie might understand me just fine, but she doesn’t agree with me. And that’s the end of the line for her. Nothing else makes any difference.
I take a step closer, so she can’t pretend this is a logistical disagreement. “You crossed a line. A major one.”
Her eyes sharpen, offended now. “Everything I did was for you. And my grandson.”
“But it’s not what I wanted. I’ve not asked you for anything since I was eighteen years old.”
The movers’ voices drift in from outside, a reminder that time is still progressing, even if Evie would rather freeze it here. She glances toward the door, irritation flashing across her face.
“You’re overreacting,” she says. “You always do when you don’t get your way.”
I almost laugh at that. Almost. Instead, I hold her gaze. “I’m not the one imposing my will on someone else in this situation.”
For a moment, there’s a hint of anger through her composure. Then it’s gone, replaced by the cool certainty she wears like armor. “We’ll discuss this later,” she says. “When you’ve calmed down.” She turns to the movers. “Please leave everything where it is. She’s not leaving.”
I shake my head. “No,” I tell them. “Please continue.”
And for the first time since she walked in, Evie looks like she didn’t plan for this version of me.
“I have a question,” I say after a moment. “When did you buy my apartment building?”
Evie stills. Her gaze sharpens, assessing, as if she’s deciding whether the truth is worth the inconvenience. She wasn’t expecting that. She thought this conversation would stay safely in the realm of feelings and overreaction.
“I own lots of buildings in town,” she says breezily. “What matters is that you’re secure.”
“So you did it after I moved in.”
She exhales, irritation creeping into the lines around her mouth. “Addie, I saw an opportunity. The building was mismanaged. I stepped in.”
“You stepped into my life,” I say. “Again.”
She waves a hand, dismissive. “You’re making this into something it isn’t. You were late a few times with rent, and we didn’t try to evict you. I took care of it. I wanted you to have a cushion.”
“I’ve never missed paying my rent. You may have gotten it a day or two late, but you would never have been able to evict me.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve always taken care of you. That’s never changed.”
I almost admire the consistency. But watching her do it in real time, I realize that if she refuses to name the thing, to acknowledge it in any way, she can pretend it isn’t real.
“You didn’t just move my things,” I explain to her, in case she really can’t see it. “You removed my choice. You decided where I’d live, what space I’d occupy, what parts of me are acceptable enough to keep.”
Her lips press together. “I did what any parent would do.”
“No,” I say. “That’s not true. And anyway, you’re not my parent. You’re my grandmother.” I hold her gaze. “And you did what you always do. You decide what you want. Then everyone else adjusts.”
The air between us feels brittle now. I can feel the weight of all the other moments like this layered underneath—decisions made in advance, conversations staged after the fact, explanations offered only when resistance appears.
She shifts tactics, the way she always does when her control slips. “You’re pregnant,” she says, as if that ends the discussion. “You can’t pretend you don’t need help.”
I shake my head. Pregnancy isn’t weakness. It isn’t leverage. It’s simply a truth. “What you did wasn’t help,” I say. “It was ownership.”
Her expression hardens. “You’re being dramatic.”
“You moved me out of my home without telling me. That’s not drama. That’s a fact.”
For the first time, Evie looks uncomfortable—not guilty, not remorseful, just unsettled. She doesn’t like facts she can’t bend.
“You’re being unreasonable,” she says. “And frankly, you’re ungrateful. You can live here rent-free. I’ve already interviewed several nannies to help you.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t want it.”
“So what’s your plan?” she asks. “Who’s going to take care of you now?”
I straighten without thinking, my spine aligning like something inside me finally remembers its shape. “I am,” I say.
She blinks. “That’s not realistic.”
“I’ve been doing it since I was eighteen.”
Every version of my adult life stands behind that sentence—every lease signed, every invoice sent, every time I figured it out because there was no one else to do it for me.
“You can’t do this alone,” she protests. “Especially now.”
I think for a moment. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because I’m choosing what belongs in this conversation. “Luc is the baby’s father,” I tell her.
Evie stills.
“He’s going to be involved,” I continue. “So decisions about my body, my pregnancy, and my son will be made by me and Luc. Together.”
Her mouth tightens. “You’re letting a man dictate your life now?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not letting you.” I can feel myself smiling as the truth of that takes shape. “I’m not transferring control from you to him,” I clarify. “I’m taking it back for myself. And I’m choosing partnership.”
Evie searches my face, probably looking for hesitation she can exploit.
She doesn’t find it.
“I’m not alone,” I reply, thinking about my siblings, as well as Luc. “But even if I were, that wouldn’t be yours to manage.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’re pushing away the only person who’s ever been willing to step in.”
“No,” I say. “I’m again stepping out of the mess you created. I don’t want your drama in my life,” I continue. “The crises. The manipulation. The way everything becomes about you.”
She scoffs. “You’re being ungrateful.”
“I’m being clear.”
Evie laughs. “You think clarity is going to save you?”
I don’t answer. The moment doesn’t require defense.
“You have no idea how quickly things can unravel,” she continues. “This town is small. People talk. And they listen to me.”
There’s the threat, finally stated.
“Your little art business won’t survive once I’m finished,” she adds. “I can make sure of that.”
I study her for a second, the certainty she’s banking on, the way she assumes fear is still a language we share.
“You should try,” I say.
Her brows lift, startled. “Excuse me?”
“As far as I can tell,” I continue evenly, “the community is tired of your theatrics. They’re polite. They’re patient. But they’re done.” I hold her gaze. “And it’s not just gossip anymore.”
Her mouth tightens.
“I’ve met with the police,” I say, steady. “And so have you. Questions. Reports. This is real. People are watching. And you can’t bully an entire town into pretending nothing happened.”
She stares at me.
“So,” I conclude. “I don’t think your influence is as strong as you think it is.”
Evie’s power has always depended on the assumption that no one would call her bluff. That everyone was too afraid of the noise she’d make.
“If anything,” I add, “you stirring things up would probably bring me more work. People like supporting someone you’re trying to crush.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she says after a moment, her voice cooler now. “One you won’t be able to undo.”
I give her a small, almost tired smile. “I disagree.”
Outside, I hear the low thud of a box being set down. The movers are making the final trip to the truck.
I step outside, and one of them gives me a polite nod, clipboard tucked under his arm. He tells me they’re ready to go.
I thank him and walk toward my car, keys cool and familiar in my hand. I can feel Evie’s presence behind me like static, waiting for a reaction that isn’t coming.
When I finally glance in the rearview mirror, she’s standing near the front steps of the house. Still and alone. Her coat buttoned tight, her posture rigid, as if control might return if she holds herself correctly.
This is the version of her I’ve always avoided seeing. Not powerful. Not commanding. Just deeply, painfully lonely. She’s spent years pushing people away until there’s no one close enough to contradict her. Most of the people left in her orbit tolerate her because they want something from her.
That isn’t me.
Even now, she doesn’t look like someone who understands what she’s done. She looks like someone who believes this is temporary, like I’ll come back when I “calm down.”
But as I drive away, the house shrinks in the mirror until Evie becomes just another figure swallowed by distance.
I follow the moving truck as it rumbles its way through town, and then Luc’s driveway comes into view as the truck slows ahead of me.
I feel relief before I even put the car in park, the way my body exhales when it recognizes something familiar.
Luc has patients this morning, and my brother and sisters have plenty to do, so while they’ll reappear later, for now, I’ve convinced them I can do this on my own.
The movers pull in and open the back of the truck. As I approach, they ask where I want the boxes.
“All the way inside,” I tell them. “The back room.”
They nod and carry my life past me and into a space that hasn’t been arranged on my behalf.
As I watch them, I think about what partnership actually means. Not being absorbed into someone else’s life. Not being managed or corrected or handled. But a presence that holds without gripping. Support that doesn’t erase identity.
Luc has never tried to rearrange me. After I explained how I felt about his early choices, he doesn’t rush ahead of my decisions or smooth over my discomfort so he can feel useful. He listens. He shows up. He lets me take the lead in my own life.
Even the pregnancy feels different now. It’s less like a weight I have to account for and more like a future I get to imagine. Not alone but not surrendered either. There’s something growing here because I want it to, not because someone else decided it should.
This isn’t temporary. It isn’t reactionary.
This is something I’m choosing to build.