Chapter 6 - “And if the children ask difficult questions?”
“I’ll answer them honestly.”
“Even when the answer is painful?”
“Especially then.”
I extended my hand.
He looked at it for half a second before taking it.
His hand was warm, his grip careful.
It was not a romantic gesture.
Not yet.
It was an agreement.
The next morning, I went back to Grey Haven and called Mrs.
Sutton.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Grace.”
There was a pause.
“Which Grace?”
“The one you trained to tell the difference between a proofing problem and a personal crisis.”
“Ah,” she said.
“The difficult one.”
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
“I know about Eleanor.”
The silence on the line changed.
“I wondered when you would.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it wasn’t my story to tell.”
“It was my life.”
“Yes,” Mrs.
Sutton said.
“And you deserved to choose when to hear it.”
“You let me believe my mother abandoned me.”
“I let you believe what you had been told because I did not know whether the truth would heal you or make you feel responsible for a woman you had never known.”
“She loved me.”
“She did.”
“Did she love me enough?”
Mrs.
Sutton’s voice became very gentle.
“She loved you as well as she knew how.
That is not always enough.
But it is not nothing.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did Celia ask you to give me the job at Ashford House?”
“No.
Celia asked me to make sure you had a place in the world where your work was valued.
She never asked me to direct your life.”
“Did you know I was leaving Colin?”
“I knew you were unhappy.”
“How?”
“You stopped singing while you worked.”
I laughed through my tears.
Mrs.
Sutton continued, “You thought no one noticed.
Celia noticed too.”
“I’m angry with all of you.”
“You should be.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Not at all.
Anger is often grief with somewhere to go.”
I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out at the narrow street below.
“I’m staying at Ashford House.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Julian called.”
Of course he had.
“What did he say?”
“That you were making honey bread and that Oliver had eaten two slices.”
“Three,” I said.
“Then you’re indispensable.”
“I’m not.”
“No,” Mrs.
Sutton replied.
“You’re loved.
There’s a difference.”
After the call, I packed the few things I had left at Harper’s.
Mrs.
Bell refused payment for the final week.
“You made enough bread to keep this house alive through February,” she said.
“I can still pay.”
“You can also visit.”
“I will.”
“And Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t become so useful that no one remembers to ask what you want.”
I promised I wouldn’t.
That evening, I carried my bags into Ashford House.
The children were waiting in the front hall.
Oliver had made a crooked paper sign that read WELCOME HOME, though the letters were backward in places.
Lila held a bunch of winter branches tied with string.
Gabriel stood behind them, pretending he had merely happened to be nearby.
Julian was at the foot of the stairs.
I set down my bags.
“I’m staying,” I said.
Oliver ran forward and wrapped his arms around my waist.
Lila followed, less carefully.
Gabriel hesitated before stepping close enough to take one of my bags.
“I can carry that,” he said.
“I know.”
He kept hold of it anyway.
Julian watched us with an expression I could not quite read.
“Does that mean you’ll make breakfast tomorrow?”
Lila asked.
“It means I’ll make breakfast tomorrow.”
“Bread?”
“Bread too.”
“Can it be the honey kind?”
“Yes.”
Oliver pulled back.
“Can we have biscuits also?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether anyone helps clean the kitchen.”
He groaned.
Lila laughed.
Gabriel shook his head.
Julian looked at me.
“What?”
I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That expression means something.”
“I was thinking the house sounds different.”
I listened.
The children were arguing about who would stir the dough.
The old heating pipes clicked in the walls.
Somewhere upstairs, a door opened and closed.
Beyond the windows, the river moved steadily through the dark.
“It does,” I said.
He nodded.
Later, after the children were asleep, I stood alone in the kitchen with my mother’s recipe notebook open beside the flour bin.
Celia’s letter lay beneath it, carefully folded.
I read the last paragraph again.
You do not owe my children a replacement for me.
You do not owe Julian a life because he needs one.
You do not owe your mother forgiveness before you are ready.
But if you choose this house, Grace, choose it because there is room here for your whole heart.
I touched the page.
Then I opened the notebook and began measuring flour.
Not because anyone had asked.
May you like
Not because I was trying to prove I belonged.
Because, for the first time in my life, I was making something that felt like home—and choosing to stay long enough to taste it.
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