I don’t have to go far looking for my mother. She’s standing in the living room doorway, waiting to pounce when I come down the steps.

“What is the mean—”

I shush her with a finger to my lips and crook that same one for her to follow me. Thankfully she does. I don’t need her going off and running her mouth where Celina could hear her. Could hear us.

I walk through the dining room and make a right before I reach the kitchen. Alton’s study, which is blissfully empty of the man. I doubt my mother would agree, but the world is a much better place without him in it.

Before I close my eyes, I take a deep breath and cast a look of gratitude heavenward. And then I turn to face my seething mother.

“How dare you put me in this position? How dare you show up here, after all this time, after all that’s happened, unannounced, and put me on the spot like that? How dare you—”

“She’s sick, Momma.”

That shuts her up. I can almost hear the click of her teeth as her mouth slams closed. After a few seconds, she asks much more calmly, “What?”

“She’s really sick.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

All of a sudden I feel drained. Utterly drained.

I’ve dreaded this day, this reunion for weeks. As soon as I talked to the doctor and made the decision to come here, I began to dread it. I just don’t think I knew how much it was affecting me. I feel as though every muscle in my body has been clenched for fifteen years and now I’m too weak to hold them taut anymore.

My lungs deflate and I more or less dissolve into the chair in front of Alton’s desk. “She has aplastic anemia.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s complicated. A bunch of medical terms and scary, depressing shit.”

“Brinkley!” she warns.

“Basically, last year, she got cut on some glass at the park and contracted a staph infection in the wound. The only drug it was sensitive to was chloramphenicol. One of its rare side effects is aplastic anemia, which is when your bone marrow stops producing blood cells. That means she’s very susceptible to bleeding and infections. She stays really tired all the time, short of breath, has a lot of headaches. Stuff like that, and when she gets sick with something a healthy kid would kick in a few days, Celina has it for weeks or months. Something like the flu is potentially life-threatening for her.”

“Is it contagious?”

My mouth falls open and I gape at my mother. It takes me several astonished seconds to even find my tongue, which is normally the first thing to work in any situation. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

Fire explodes in my belly and my own fatigue is forgotten. Rage burns through me in a wild, hot blaze.

“You disgust me.” The words are out before I can stop them. I’m genuinely appalled. I’m also pretty proud of myself for only saying that. A long train of insults flitted through my mind, but I didn’t say even one of them. And the only reason is because of my daughter. We do need to stay here. For at least a little while. And I’d do anything for Celina, even if it means biting my tongue when I’d really like to cut my mother to shreds with it.

Momma raises a hand to her throat like I just dealt her a grave and completely unexpected insult. “You can’t talk to me that way in my own home. Don’t forget that it’s you who came to me.” She pauses imperiously before demanding, “Apologize. Right this minute.”

I swallow all the things I’d like to say to that, along with what’s left of my pride, and I do as she asks. I even manage to lower my eyes in a submissive way, but only so she can’t see the disdain glaring out at her from them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just…I’m just tired. You didn’t deserve that.”

After a few seconds, when she says nothing, I dare to look up. She’s clearly mollified by my act, as well she should be. That was good. Damn good. I surprised even myself. I probably deserve an award for that performance. That was some Oscar-worthy stuff right there.

“Fine. Just don’t let it happen again. I won’t tolerate it.” After a beat, she adds, “I hope you haven’t raised your daughter to be this disrespectful.”

I feel the press of my lips against my teeth as they want to thin, but I keep them loose and force them into a contrite smile.

“I didn’t. She’s a good girl. It won’t happen again. I’ll watch my tongue, Momma. I promise.”

“Good. Now, what is it that you’ve brought Celina here for then?”

I’m purposely vague. At least for now. I have to take this one slow step at a time. “Medical care.”

“Couldn’t you get her help in…wherever you lived?”

It’s almost comical that in fifteen years, my mother hasn’t bothered to find out where I was. “Maryland. We lived in Maryland. And yes, they had medical care there, but there are some really exciting therapies being developed at Duke. It’s not the type of sickness where she can get a shot or have a surgery and it goes away.”

“You think they’ll be able to cure her?”

“I hope so. She’d already progressed to needing transfusions, but they’re not as effective as they were early on, so… We need to see the specialists to find out what the next step is.”

Momma nods. At least I see some compassion in her eyes. Surely the snobby selfishness that plagues most of the residents of Shepherd’s Mill hasn’t killed off all her humanity.

“Well.” My mother sniffs in that haughty way that warns me I’m not going to like what comes next. Makes me want to rip her pert, upturned nose off. “You can stay here as long as you need to, but no funny business. You’ve caused this family enough pain.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’ve caused this family pain? What a stinky load of horseshit.

Before I can respond with my thoughts on that, however, the beautiful, china-doll face of my daughter flashes through my head, and I roll over and play dead.

“No shenanigans. Scout’s honor.” I hold up two fingers in a peace sign. Momma slaps them down.

“Scouts are boys, for one thing. And it’s three fingers, not two. I swear to goodness. You haven’t changed a bit.”

That I actually take as a compliment. Although I have changed—quite a bit, in fact—from the moldable, sheep-like girl I was before I left this town, she thought I was rebellious. Bullheaded. Stubborn. Too stubborn to fit into a society like this. The fact that she still sees those traits in me is the first nice thing she’s said to me in going on fifteen years.

I tuck my hands behind me and interlock my fingers, suppressing a smile. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t let us stay, so this is a good sign. A very good sign.

For all her bluster, she’s still Momma. And for all the heartache she’s caused me, I’ve missed her.

“Get your things. Put your daughter in the third bedroom. It’s quieter. And, for heaven’s sake, change your clothes before dinner. You look like a street urchin.”

I glance down at my jeans with a hole in the knee (my favorite ones) and my lime green tee with Slice written across the front. I want to point out that at least my sneakers are clean, mainly because they’re black, but still…

However, I don’t. No sense poking the bear on day one.

She turns and walks stiffly toward the door, but I stop her before she can disappear. “Momma?”

She stops and angles the upper half of her body back at me. She arches one brow, clearly still miffed.

“Please be nice to Celina. She…she’s had a tough go of it lately. She could really use another person in her corner.” Color stains her cheeks, so before she can get really good and mad, I add, as sincerely as I possibly can without getting down on all fours and kissing her ass, “Please.”

Momma’s nostrils flare in irritation, and when she pivots to fully face me, my optimism flags. I think for a split second that this is never going to work. I shouldn’t have come back. I should’ve tried to think of something, anything else. But, thankfully, her words belie her expression. “She seems to be a lovely girl. Why on earth wouldn’t I be nice to her? She’s my grandchild.”

I exhale.

She’s my grandchild.

That’s what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. That there is some attachment, some connection she feels to her.

While I hoped against hope that I could still depend on Momma, I wasn’t one hundred percent certain. I wanted her support. Needed her support. Even if it’s like this—grudging—I need it. For my daughter. For my sweet Celina. I’d do anything for her. Even this.

“Thank you, Momma. Truly.”

She scoffs at me. “Really, Brinkley. Don’t be so dramatic. What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was just nervous. It’s been a long time.”

“That it has.”

She waits semi-patiently for me to finish, so I let her off the hook.

“I also wanted to say I…I’m sorry. For your loss.”

I just can’t bring myself to say, I’m sorry Alton is dead. I actually felt like doing a cartwheel in our apartment when I read the article about his passing from a fatal brain aneurysm. But I don’t tell her that. To my mother, it was a loss, and I can at least be sorry for her.

“Thank you.” She nods graciously and walks away.

I let out a breath when she’s gone, my optimism returning. Maybe this can work. Maybe, after all this time, more than just Celina can find healing here.