CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Roots and Wings
"I don’t know about this, Elowen," Mom murmurs, arms crossed on the porch rail like it might be the only thing keeping her upright. "I think it’s too soon."
I step closer, careful not to spook her. "Mom, it’s ten minutes down the road. That’s it. I’ll stop at the farm stand, and grab a few things. You don’t even have to get out of the car if you’re not ready."
She worries the edge of her thumbnail with her teeth, eyes flicking toward the driveway where my new car waits, engine ticking in the warm afternoon sun.
Steps.
Small ones.
But they count.
It’s been two months since Dad died. A month since I came home. Everything still feels off-kilter, like the world’s been tilted a few degrees and we’re all just now learning how to walk on that new angle.
But she’s trying. For me. For Jasper.
For herself, even if she won’t admit it.
"I’ll sit in the car," she finally says, voice small. "But no grocery store. I can’t do the grocery store yet."
"Deal," I say softly, and reach for her hand, not to pull, just to let her know I’m here if she wants the contact.
She takes it.
The drive is slow, careful. I keep one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift, glancing over every so often to make sure Mom is still with me, really with me.
She doesn’t say much at first. Just looks out the window, her eyes following the blur of oak trees, the old fence lines, the quiet pastures we’ve driven past a thousand times. But today, she’s seeing them differently. Like someone returning from a long winter, blinking at spring.
When we turn onto Sycamore Road, she stiffens slightly in her seat. I know why.
We pass the small white house. Brooks’ house. Paint still peeling. Roof still sagging a little at the eaves like it’s tired. But now there’s a bright red For Sale sign staked in the yard.
Mom leans forward a little, squinting at it. "Is Brooks selling the house?"
I nod, fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel. "Yeah. He made the decision a few days ago."
A long pause.
"Where’s he going to live?" she asks, voice soft but steady.
I glance at her, then back to the road, and can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth.
"He has plans," I say.
For so long, Brooks didn’t talk about plans.
He talked about obligations. He talked about what someone else needed.
Who needed groceries. Who needed a ride.
Who needed backup. Hearing myself say it out loud—He has plans—makes something in my chest loosen.
Because plans mean future. And future means he’s not drowning here just to keep the rest of us floating.
Mom brow furrows at first, like she wants more, but then she catches the smirk. Her expression softens, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.
We don’t say anything else for a while. The silence feels... full. Not empty this time. Like maybe the world isn’t ending after all. Maybe it's just beginning again, in smaller ways.
The old farm stand sits just past the bend in the road, the one lined with sunflowers this time of year. I pull in beside a crooked wooden sign that reads "Fresh Produce, Cash Only" in peeling paint.
"I’ll be right back," I tell Mom gently as I unbuckle.
She nods, staring out at the fields like they might swallow her whole. But she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. That alone feels like progress.
I step out into the warmth of late afternoon, the scent of dirt and tomatoes thick in the air. A wicker basket waits at the stand’s edge, so I pick it up and start filling it—heirloom tomatoes, sweet corn, zucchini. A few peaches, just soft enough to bruise with the wrong kind of handling.
As I sort through the greens, I glance back at the car. She’s still there, arms folded loosely over her chest, her face turned toward the breeze slipping in through the open window. She looks smaller somehow, but also sturdier.
And I realize something.
She didn’t need saving.
She just needed time. Encouragement. A little grace. The kind that isn’t loud or flashy. The kind that says it’s okay to fall apart here and you don’t have to rush to be okay.
Judgment never worked. It only built walls. I see that now. All those times I wanted her to just snap out of it—to be stronger, to try harder—I was trying to help, but I wasn’t helping. Not really.
The truth is, people don’t bloom because we force them to. They bloom when they’re ready. When they feel safe enough to try.
I gather the last of the groceries—fresh bread, a jar of honey—and walk toward the little shack to pay the woman behind the counter. She smiles at me kindly, like she remembers me. Maybe she does.
When I return to the car and set the bag in the back seat, Mom looks at the bread, then up at me.
"That’s Dad’s favorite," she says quietly.
"I know."
Her fingers brush the paper bag like it’s something breakable. She doesn’t cry. For the first time, she doesn’t run. She just… stays.
She doesn’t say anything else. But I swear I see it in her eyes. Something an awful lot like thank you.
And maybe something like I’m still here.
By the time we get home, the sun is beginning its slow descent behind the tree line. It casts long shadows across the porch as I help Mom out of the car. She grips my arm for balance, not out of weakness, but out of habit. A tether. She’s still here. She’s still trying.
Once she’s inside, she goes straight to Dad’s old recliner. The one she refused to sit in for weeks. Tonight, though, she eases into it with a soft sigh, her thin fingers wrapping around the TV remote.
Brooks is already in the kitchen when I join him. He’s slicing garlic on a cutting board, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. Something about it—about him—feels like home in a way nothing else has in a long time.
"I got zucchini," I announce, setting the farm stand bag on the counter.
He grins. "Perfect. I was just thinking about that summer pasta dish your dad used to make."
I pull out the tomatoes and hand them to him. "She sat in his chair," I murmur, nodding toward the living room.
Brooks follows my gaze and nods. "She’s doing better."
"She is," I agree, letting the warmth of that truth settle in my chest. "I think she just needed the space to fall apart."
"And someone willing to stay," he says quietly.
I look at him—really look—and wonder how I ever thought I could stay away.
He turns back to the cutting board and says, "Got an offer on the house."
I blink. "You did?"
"Full asking," he replies, like it’s no big deal, but his voice is soft, hopeful.
I chop the zucchini beside him. "Where are you going to live?"
He shrugs, then glances sideways. "I have some ideas."
I smirk. "Ideas, huh?"
He leans over, nudging me with his shoulder. "I’m happy you came home."
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. "Me too."
The screen door bangs open before I can say anything more. Wren steps inside, cheeks pink from the evening wind, and Jasper follows behind her sober this time, but his energy is electric.
"Big news," he announces, his voice cutting through the room like a spark.
Brooks and I both turn.
"I’m moving to Houston," Jasper says, wrapping an arm around Wren like it’s the most natural thing in the world. "I’m going with her. I leave next week."
Mom’s head turns toward the announcement, remote forgotten in her lap.
My mouth opens, then closes again. I glance at Brooks, whose eyes are wide but proud.
Jasper shrugs. "I need a fresh start. And I think… I think Dad would want me to go. To stop running in circles here."
For a second, I just stare at him. My little brother—the one who used to fall asleep on the couch with cartoons blaring at 3 a.m., the one who quietly held Mom together when no one else could, the one Dad yelled at instead of thanking because he was scared and didn’t know where to put the fear—is leaving.
On purpose. For himself. Not to escape, but to build.
It hits me all at once that he’s not stuck anymore, and maybe he never was.
Maybe I was the one who kept assuming none of us could leave without the whole place collapsing.
I step forward and wrap him in a hug, my heart full and aching all at once. "He’d be proud of you. You carried him when I couldn’t," I whisper. "Now go build something new."
And I believe he will.
Because maybe that’s what this season is about. It’s about learning how to live again. Not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the quiet, steady ones. In clean dishes. In packed-up leftovers. In showing up, even when it’s hard.
Funny. I thought I had to leave to find clarity. But it was always here buried beneath laundry piles, porch steps, and people who never stopped loving me.
We celebrate with Dad’s favorite pasta dish and drinks and laughter. And then, the sun sinks lower on the horizon and Jasper takes Wren back to her parent’s house.
The kitchen is quiet now. Mom’s curled in Dad’s old recliner, half-asleep as the television casts a soft blue light across her cheekbones.
Now, it’s just us. Brooks and I sit side by side on a porch step, the night still and thick with late-summer air. The stars stretch across the sky like a quilt. The cicadas sing. And somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots, then goes quiet.
It’s strange. A month ago, this house felt like a mausoleum—airless and heavy and full of everything we’d already lost. Tonight it doesn’t feel fixed exactly, but it feels…
lived in. Mom is asleep in Dad’s chair instead of locked behind a door.
Jasper’s talking about a future without apologizing for it.
Brooks is selling his house. And I’m here.
Not visiting. Not hovering like I’ve got one foot out the door. Here.
For once, the future doesn’t feel like something miles away. It feels like it’s sitting on this porch with us.
I tuck my legs under me. "I’m thinking of starting over with my account."
Brooks turns to me, brow lifted. "Deleting it?"
"No. Just… reframing it. Less about aesthetics. More about honesty. Real life. Messy days. Healing. Maybe even grief. Not as content. Just… as proof that I survived this."
He nods slowly. "You’ve always been good with words. Might help someone."
"I hope so," I murmur. "I think it might help me, too."
Silence drapes over us for a moment, comfortable this time.
"I’ve been thinking of getting a job," Brooks says suddenly. "Like… a real one."
I glance over. "A real job?"
He laughs under his breath. "Yeah. Something that pays me on purpose instead of just ‘helping out where I can.’ Maybe even full-time."
"Do you know what you want to do?" He shrugs, but it’s not the old kind of shrug. Not that ‘I’ll just float here forever’ shrug. This one has momentum in it.
"Not yet. But I think I’ll figure it out. I don’t feel stuck anymore."
"Good," I whisper. "You deserve more than stuck."
We sit with that for a while. The wind sails gently by. My fingers find his and we both hold on tight.
"I’m scared for her," I admit quietly. "For Mom. What if she doesn’t learn how to take care of herself?"
"She will," Brooks says with certainty. "She’s already trying."
I nod, not because I fully believe it, but because I want to.
"I just wish Dad could see all of this," I say.
Brooks squeezes my hand. "He’d be proud. Of all of you."
"Next week, Jasper leaves for Houston. He says he’s chasing the stars. I think he's just following his heart finally."
"I think so, too," Brooks agrees.
I rest my head on his shoulder. He smells like soap and summer and something earthy, like he’s always just been out fixing something. Making things right.
"You know," he says, voice low, "when you left… I didn’t think you’d come back."
"I wasn’t sure I would either," I admit. "But it turns out home isn’t something you outgrow. Not really. It just waits."
He squeezes my hand. "So what now?"
"Now?" I glance up at him. "Now we live. Not perfectly. Not pain-free. And honestly. With each other."
He smiles, soft and sure. "I can do that."
I tilt my chin up, catching his eyes in the starlight. "I’m really glad you didn’t give up on me."
"Never could," he says. "Believe me, I tried."
We both laugh quietly, and I lean in, brushing my lips against his.
It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just steady. Sure.
Like us.
Like coming home.
When we finally pull apart, the world feels still. But not empty. Not hollow. Just quiet. Full of what could be.
Brooks wraps an arm around my shoulder and we look out into the night.
A new chapter is waiting.
And this time, we’ll write it together.