Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sleep had become unreliable in Margo’s eighties.
Not insomnia exactly—more like her body had decided that four hours was plenty and anything beyond that was excessive. She’d fought it for a while, lying in the dark, willing herself back to sleep. Now she just got up.
Two-fourteen AM. The cottage was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of waves. Margo pulled on her robe—the old blue one, soft from decades of washing—and padded to the kitchen.
Tea. Tea would help. Tea always helped, even when it didn’t.
She was filling the kettle when she noticed the silence.
Not the absence of sound—the cottage was always quiet at this hour. But something else. A heaviness in the air. The guest room door was cracked open, no light spilling through.
Margo hesitated. She could pretend she hadn’t noticed. Make her tea, take it back to bed, leave her houseguest to whatever thoughts kept her up at two in the morning.
Instead, she pulled down a second cup.
“Fiona?” She knocked softly on the door frame. “I’m making tea. Would you like some?”
A long pause. “I’m fine.”
The words were thick. Wrong.
Margo pushed the door open gently. Fiona was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, staring at nothing. Her face was blotchy in the dim light from the hallway. She’d been crying—or trying not to.
“Come,” Margo said. It wasn’t a question. “Keep me company while the kettle boils.”
For a moment, she thought Fiona would refuse. Would pull the door closed and retreat into whatever she was feeling alone.
But she stood. Followed Margo to the kitchen. Sat at the small table without speaking.
The kettle clicked on. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, something rustled in the bougainvillea. Probably the neighbor’s cat.
Margo made the tea in silence. Chamomile for herself. Earl Grey for Fiona—she’d noticed the preference days ago. She set the cups down and waited.
Fiona wrapped her hands around the warm cup but didn’t drink.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Margo asked.
“No.”
“All right.”
They sat in silence. The clock ticked. Steam rose from the cups.
“He ambushed me,” Fiona said finally, her voice flat. “Tyler. Came in like he had every right. Said things—” She stopped. Pressed her lips together.
“I heard part of your conversation with Stella. Sounded difficult. These walls aren’t as thick as you’d think.”
Fiona’s laugh was hollow. “Difficult. That’s one word for it.” She stared into her tea. “She told me I kept Tyler away to protect myself. Not her. Myself.”
Margo said nothing. Waited.
“And then he came in and said—” Fiona’s voice cracked slightly. She cleared her throat, controlled it. “He said I did what felt safe. For me. Like I was selfish. Like everything I did for sixteen years was selfish.”
“Was it?”
Fiona’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“I’m asking.” Margo kept her voice gentle. “Not accusing. Asking.”
“I kept her safe. I gave her stability. A home. A life.” The words came out sharp, defensive. “I did everything alone. Everything. And now I’m the villain because she wants to stay with the father who showed up when it was easy?”
“Is that what you think? That it’s been easy for Tyler?”
“Easier than it was for me.”
Margo sipped her chamomile. Let the silence stretch.
“Can I tell you something?” she said finally. “About my daughter?”
Fiona looked up warily. “Tyler’s mother?”
“Yes.” Margo turned her cup in her hands, watching the tea swirl. “She left too. Not at sixteen—she waited until she was twenty-two, finished art school. But she left. And she kept leaving.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’d come back for a while. A few months, sometimes a year.
She’d help at the Shack, reconnect with her children, make us all believe she was staying.
And then she’d get restless. Some artist residency in New Mexico.
A gallery showing in New York. A man in Paris who understood her work.
” Margo’s voice caught slightly. She cleared her throat.
“There was always something pulling her away.”
Fiona was quiet now. Listening.
“It was agony.” The word came out rougher than Margo intended. Her eyes stung, and she didn’t try to hide it. “I spent years being angry. Then I spent years being sad. Then I spent years trying to understand.”
Fiona stared at her. Something shifted in her face—surprise, maybe, at seeing Margo’s composure crack.
“Did you? Understand?”
“Some of it.” Margo blinked, felt the wetness on her lashes. Didn’t wipe it away. “She was running toward something. Her art. Her freedom. Whatever she thought she’d find out there that she couldn’t find here. I don’t think she ever found it. But she never stopped looking.”
A car passed on the street outside, headlights briefly sweeping across the window.
“Where is she now?”
“Portugal, last I heard. She sends postcards sometimes. Texted on my birthday.” Margo’s laugh was soft, wet at the edges. “We’ve made a kind of peace. Not the relationship I wanted, but a real one. Honest, at least.”
“And Tyler? How did he handle it?”
“Surviving a mother who kept leaving?” Margo shook her head slowly.
“Not easily. Tyler ran away in his own way—different cities, different countries, always with a camera between him and the world. Meg went the opposite direction. Built systems, made plans, tried to control everything because she couldn’t control her mother staying. ”
“And now Tyler’s here. Putting down roots.”
“For Stella. She gave him a reason to stay.”
Fiona flinched. Just slightly, but Margo caught it.
“I’m not telling you this to hurt you,” Margo said gently. “I’m telling you because I understand. More than you might think.”
“How can you understand?” Fiona’s voice was rising again, the armor trying to reassemble. “Your daughter left you. Chose to leave, and kept leaving. My daughter is leaving me for—” She stopped. Pressed her lips together.
“For what?”
“For this. For here. For a family she barely knows.” The words came out bitter, sharp-edged. “For a father who got to be the fun one, the vacation parent, while I did everything alone.”
“Did you want him there?”
The question landed like a stone in still water.
“What?”
“Tyler.” Margo kept her voice even. “He told me about the arrangement. The rules you set. No telling his family. Limited visits. Everything on your terms.”
“He agreed to those terms.”
“He was young and terrified of losing his daughter entirely.” Margo met her eyes. “What choice did he have?”
Fiona’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Margo thought she might leave—push back from the table and retreat to the guest room, conversation over.
“I was scared too,” Fiona said finally, her voice quieter now. “I was pregnant and alone. Tyler was—he was so young. And I knew if his family got involved, if they started having opinions, I’d lose control completely.”
“So you kept control.”
“I kept Stella safe.”
“You did.” Margo nodded. “You raised a remarkable young woman. Strong. Thoughtful. Brave enough to know what she wants and ask for it.”
“Brave enough to leave me.”
“Brave enough to choose. There’s a difference.”
Fiona’s eyes filled. This time she didn’t fight it.
“I held on so tight,” she whispered. “Because I was afraid of exactly this.”
“I know.” Margo’s own eyes were wet now too.
Two mothers, sitting in a kitchen at three in the morning, both crying for daughters who needed something they couldn’t give.
“I held tight to Sam too. And she left anyway. But the ones I gave room to breathe—Tyler, Meg, Anna—they came back. They stayed.”
Fiona reached across the table. Took Margo’s hand.
They sat like that for a long moment. Not speaking. Just holding on.
“You think I’m pushing her away,” Fiona said finally. “By fighting this.”
“I think you’re grieving. And grief makes us grip harder.” Margo squeezed her hand, didn’t let go. “But Stella isn’t leaving you, Fiona. She’s just... expanding. Making room for more people to love her. That doesn’t mean less room for you.”
Fiona stared at the table. The kitchen was very quiet.
They sat in silence, hands still linked, drinking tea that had gone lukewarm. The clock on the wall ticked softly. Three-twelve AM now. The night felt both endless and almost over.
“Thank you,” Fiona said finally. “For telling me about Sam. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“Easier now that I’m eighty. You stop protecting old wounds. They’re just part of the story.” Margo released her hand gently, stood, collecting the cups. “Try to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.”
Fiona almost smiled. Almost.
She retreated to the guest room. The door clicked shut. Margo rinsed the cups, set them in the drying rack, and stood at the kitchen window looking out at the dark garden.
She thought about Sam, somewhere in Portugal, chasing light.
She thought about Fiona, in the guest room, learning to let go.
She thought about the Shack—her Shack, her fifty years of grilled cheese and community and shells on the ceiling—sitting empty on slow afternoons while she painted in her studio.
Something was wrong there too. She’d heard it from Meg, from Joey, from Bernie’s careful silence. The grilled cheese didn’t taste the same. The customers weren’t finishing their food.
She’d been so focused on letting go. On trusting the next generation. On finally, finally giving herself permission to paint.
But maybe she’d let go of the wrong things.
Soon, she thought. Soon she’d walk down to the Shack. Just to check. Just to see.
Not to fix anything.
Just to look.
She turned off the kitchen light and went back to bed, knowing she wouldn’t sleep.