Chapter 27 Holly
HOLLY
Iwasn't eavesdropping, not exactly. I was just organizing the teen section at Aunt Elyse's bookstore when Cat came in looking all serious. They moved to the reading nook, voices low, but sound carried in that old building. Something about Allison and notes on her car.
It stuck with me the whole afternoon, even as I pushed Noah on the swing at the park across the street while his mom finished her shift at the café. Noah was different that day. Quieter, glancing toward the café door every few minutes like he was checking for someone.
"My grandma says I'm staying home with her while mama works at the cafe this weekend," he announced suddenly, knocking over the tower we'd spent twenty minutes building.
"That sounds fun," I said automatically, helping him gather the scattered blocks.
He shook his head, lower lip jutting out. "I don't wanna. Can't I stay with you?" He looked around and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Mama is extra sad at Grandma's house."
I tried to keep my face neutral, remembering what Aunt Elyse had said about not prying. "Oh? Why's that?"
Noah shrugged with the dramatic flair only a four-year-old can manage. "Grandma yells when she thinks I'm sleeping. Says mean things that make Mama cry. I don't think grandma likes my mama very much."
My stomach tightened. I knew that feeling—pretending to be asleep while adults fought, the helpless anger of being too small to do anything about it.
"Did you tell your mom that you heard?" I asked carefully.
Noah shook his head again. "Mama pretends she's not sad. I pretend I don't hear the yelling." He ducked his head and lowered his voice to a whisper. "We have secrets."
The matter-of-fact way he said it broke something inside me. I'd had those same "secrets" with my mom. That unspoken agreement to pretend everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.
"Hey Noah," I said, stacking a red block on top of our rebuilding tower. "You know how your mom takes care of you?"
He nodded, adding a blue block.
"Well, sometimes grown-ups need people to take care of them too. If you're worried about your mom, it's okay to tell someone."
"Like who?" he asked, his eyes wide and serious.
"Like Miss Elyse. Or Miss Cat." I handed him another block. "We care about your mom a lot."
Noah considered this, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Grandma says Mama doesn't know how to be a good mama without Daddy. That's why Grandma has to watch her all the time."
My chest tightened. I'd heard similar things growing up: how my mom couldn't handle being a parent, how she needed to be "monitored." But it sounded like what Noah had overheard hadn't been about helping; it had been about control.
"Your mom is a great mom," I said firmly. "She works really hard and makes sure you're safe and happy."
"And she makes the best peanut butter sandwiches," Noah added seriously. "With the crusts cut off and in triangles."
"Exactly. The very best triangles."
The café door opened, and Allison stepped onto the patio. Her smile looked strained around the edges, her phone clutched tightly in her hand.
"Ready to go, buddy?" she asked Noah, her voice forcibly bright.
Noah ran to her, wrapping his arms around her legs. "Can we have mac and cheese for dinner?"
"Not tonight, sweetie. Grandma texted and she's making pot roast and expects us in a half an hour." Allison's eyes darted nervously to her car in the parking lot, visible through the patio fence.
I followed her gaze and noticed a small white paper tucked under her windshield wiper.
"Everything okay?" I asked, standing up.
Allison's smile tightened. "Of course! Just the usual Friday night dinner with the in-laws." She glanced at her car again. "Would you mind watching Noah for two more minutes while I grab something from my car?"
"No problem," I said, recognizing the barely-concealed panic in her eyes.
As Allison hurried to her car, I watched her snatch the note and shove it into her pocket without reading it, her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for a blow. When she returned, her smile was back in place, but her hands trembled slightly as she helped Noah gather his things.
I wanted to say something—to tell her I understood, that she didn't have to pretend. But who was I to give advice? I was just a kid with my own messed up family history.
Instead, I said, "If you ever need someone to watch Noah last-minute, you can call me. Anytime."
Something flickered across Allison's face. Relief, maybe, or recognition. "Thanks, Holly. I appreciate that."
As they walked to the car, Noah turned and waved. "Bye, Holly! Remember our secret!"
Allison's step faltered, but she quickly recovered, helping Noah into his car seat with practiced efficiency.
I waved back, my stomach knotting. I knew I should tell someone what Noah had said about the yelling and his grandmother's comments. But I also knew how it felt to have your family's problems exposed, to have people looking at you with that mixture of pity and judgment.
Still, as I watched their car pull away, I made a decision. If Noah brought up his grandma's odd behavior again, I'd tell Aunt Elyse.
Because family shouldn't hurt. And secrets shouldn't weigh so heavy on shoulders as small as Noah's.