Chapter 32 Holly
HOLLY
Istood in front of my bedroom mirror, my reflection staring back at me with an intensity that bordered on ridiculous. My pink hair was growing out, dark roots now visible at my scalp—a perfect metaphor for how I felt these days. New growth emerging from old foundations.
"Mom," I whispered experimentally, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.
No, that wasn't right. Too formal.
"Mom," I tried again, this time with a casual lilt, like I was calling from downstairs to ask where the laundry detergent was kept.
Better, but still not quite there.
This was so stupid. Why was I practicing in a mirror like some cheesy movie montage? It was just a word. Three letters. One syllable. People said it every day without having existential crises about it.
But it wasn't just a word. It was an identity. Hers and mine. A relationship. A choice.
I flopped backward onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling I'd recently covered with photos from my photography class.
A canopy of images I'd captured since coming to live here—the oak tree at school, Eden playing in the surf, Uncle Drew grilling with an absurd "Kiss the Cook" apron, Aunt Elyse asleep on the couch with a book still open on her chest. Moments of my new life, preserved in film and digital pixels.
It had been two weeks since Mom's text messages, since her silence following my boundary-setting. Two weeks of waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to show up drunk at the door, for something to shatter the tentative peace I'd found.
But nothing had happened. Life had continued its steady rhythm: school, bakery shifts, photography club, family dinners. Normal. Safe. Boring, even, in the best possible way.
And through it all, Aunt Elyse and Uncle Drew had been.
.. well, parents. Real ones. They'd listened when I told them about Mom's texts, had validated my mixed feelings without judgment, had supported my decision to maintain boundaries.
They'd shown up to my photography exhibition at school, had framed prints made of my best shots, had bragged about me to their friends with an embarrassing enthusiasm that secretly made me glow.
They were doing all the things parents were supposed to do. Wasn't it time I acknowledged that?
I rolled onto my side, picking up the small framed photo on my nightstand—the only one I had of my mother where she looked truly happy. In it, she was laughing at something off-camera, her arm around a much younger me eating an ice cream cone at Clearwater Beach.
"I still love you," I whispered to her image. "That's not going to change."
And it wouldn't. No matter what I called Aunt Elyse, no matter what papers we signed, no matter if my mother never contacted me again, she would always be my first mother. The woman who gave me life, who sang me to sleep when I was little, who taught me to swim in the Gulf on her good days.
But loving her didn't mean I had to wait for her to become the mother I needed. It didn't mean I had to reject the love and stability being offered to me now.
Maybe family wasn't an either/or proposition. Maybe it was a both/and.
A soft knock on my door interrupted my thoughts. "Holly? Dinner in five," Aunt Elyse called. "Drew made that pasta you like."
"Coming," I replied, setting the photo back on my nightstand and standing up.
I took one last look in the mirror, straightening my shoulders. No more practicing. When/if it happened, it would be natural. Organic. Real.
I headed downstairs to find Uncle Drew at the stove, stirring a pot of his famous pasta sauce while simultaneously trying to keep Eden from snagging a piece of garlic bread cooling on the counter.
"Perfect timing," he said when he spotted me. "Can you set the table? Your aunt is finishing up some work emails."
"Sure," I said, grabbing plates from the cabinet. The domesticity of it all still surprised me sometimes. How easily I'd slotted into their routines, how they'd adjusted theirs to include me.
By the time Aunt Elyse joined us, the table was set and Uncle Drew was ladling sauce over steaming pasta.
"Sorry about that," she said, sliding into her chair. "Work crisis averted. How was everyone's day?"
Just like that, we fell into our usual dinner conversation—Uncle Drew talking about a client meeting, Aunt Elyse sharing bookstore anecdotes, me describing the new scone recipe Jenna was teaching me. Normal. Comfortable. Home.
As we ate, I found myself studying Aunt Elyse when she wasn't looking—the laugh lines around her eyes, the way she gestured with her fork when making a point, how she always seemed to notice when someone's water glass was empty. Little things. Mom things.
When she served another helping of pasta onto my empty plate, the word I'd been practicing rose to my lips without conscious thought.
"Thanks, Mom."
The moment the word left my mouth, time seemed to suspend. Aunt Elyse's fork paused halfway to her lips, her eyes widening slightly. Uncle Drew went very still beside her.
I felt my face flush hot. "I mean—sorry, I didn't—"
"Holly," Aunt Elyse interrupted softly, setting down her fork. "You never have to apologize for that. Never."
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her smile was radiant.
"I just wasn't sure if you... if that was something you wanted," I stammered. "I should have asked first."
Uncle Drew cleared his throat, his own eyes suspiciously damp. "Some things don't need permission, kiddo. They just are."
"So it's... okay?" I asked, still uncertain.
"It's more than okay," Aunt Elyse—Mom—said. "It's... it's everything."
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, a gesture so simple yet so profound I felt my own eyes start to burn.
"Does this mean I get to be 'Dad' now?" Uncle Drew asked, his attempt at lightening the moment transparent but welcome. "Because I've been practicing my dad jokes."
"Oh god, please no more dad jokes," I groaned, but I was smiling too. "You're already unbearable."
"That's how you know I'm qualified for the position," he said with mock seriousness. "Professional-grade embarrassment."
We all laughed, the emotional tension breaking into something warm and comfortable.
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of conversation and laughter, but something had shifted subtly. A threshold crossed. A decision made, not just in my head but in my heart.
Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, there was a soft knock at my door. Aunt Elyse—Mom—stood there, hesitant in a way I rarely saw her.
"Can we talk for a minute?" she asked.
I nodded, sitting cross-legged on my bed. She joined me, perching on the edge like she was afraid of taking up too much space.
"I wanted to say something about earlier," she began. "About what you called me."
My stomach tightened. "If it was too weird—"
"No," she interrupted gently. "Not weird at all. I just want you to know that whatever you call me—Elyse, Aunt Elyse, Mom, Supreme Ruler of the Universe—it doesn't change how I feel about you."
I smiled at the last one. "Supreme Ruler does have a nice ring to it."
She laughed, relaxing slightly. "My point is, I don't want you to feel any pressure. You get to decide what feels right for you, when it feels right. I'm honored by whatever name you choose."
I studied her face—so different from my mother's, yet somehow familiar in the ways that mattered most.
"I've been thinking about it for a while," I admitted. "Practicing, actually. But it felt weird to just... announce it."
Her eyes softened. "You were practicing?"
I nodded, embarrassed. "In the mirror. Like a total dork."
"That's adorable," she said, then quickly added, "And completely normal. Big changes deserve rehearsal sometimes."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the day settling around us.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally said. "Something serious?"
"Anything."
"Does it... does it bother you? That I still have her picture by my bed? That I still call her Mom too?"
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Oh, Holly. Of course not. She'll always be your mother. Nothing changes that—not adoption papers, not what you call me, nothing."
She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture so maternal it made my heart ache.
"Love isn't finite," she continued. "It's not like there's only so much to go around, and if you love her, you can't love me too. That's not how it works."
"How does it work then?" I asked, my voice small.
She considered this, her head tilting slightly.
"I think... I think love is more like those photographs you take.
Different angles, different perspectives, but all capturing something real and true.
Your love for your mom is one perspective.
Your love for me—for us—is another. Both genuine. Both yours."
It was perhaps the most perfect thing she could have said, framing it in the language of the art that had become my voice, my therapy, my joy.
"I like that," I whispered.
She smiled, standing up from the bed. "Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow with Paige's retreat. From what I've seen, it's a lot of work."
"Mom?" I said as she reached the door.
She turned, and the look on her face—tender, hopeful, a little awestruck—told me everything I needed to know about whether I'd made the right choice.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For... everything."
She nodded, no words necessary between us in that moment.
As she closed the door, I glanced at the photo of my mother on the nightstand, then up at the canopy of new images above my bed. Different perspectives. Different angles. Different chapters of the same story—my story.