Chapter 12
Back in the family home four hundred miles south, the afternoon sunlight was casting long, angled bars across the hardwood floors of the kitchen. The initial shock of Margaret’s departure had given way to a strange, productive industry. Mark had taken the boys down to the local park to burn off energy, leaving David, Clara, and Elena alone in the house.
They had spent the last two hours doing something they had never done before: cleaning out the pantry, not to organize it according to modern design trends, but to uncover what had actually been stored there over the decades. Behind the sleek, modern containers Elena had brought sat rows of old mason jars filled with pickled beets, blackberry jam, and dried herbs that Margaret had harvested and labeled by hand in faded cursive ink.
Clara sat at the island, holding one of the old glass jars up to the light. The label read Blackberry 1998. A wave of intense nostalgia washed over her, accompanied by a sharp pang of regret.
"She made this the summer after Dad died," Clara whispered, her thumb tracing the faded ink. "I remember helping her pick the berries down by the creek. I was twelve. I complained the entire time about the mosquitoes and the heat."
Elena walked over, wiping her hands on a cloth, and looked down at the jar. "And she probably just smiled, listened to you complain, and kept picking anyway." She looked around the kitchen, her voice softening. "We spent so much time trying to modernize this house, trying to make it fit our aesthetic, that we forgot it was a museum of her life. Of our life."
David walked in from the hallway holding his cell phone in his hand. He looked at his wife and his sister, his expression serious but calm. "I just tried calling her line. It went straight to voicemail."
Clara’s head snapped up, panic flashing in her eyes. "Voicemail? Did she leave her phone off? What if something happened on the highway?"
"She didn't crash, Clara," David said, holding up a hand to steady her. "She’s at Arthur’s cabin in Harbor Springs. I know how my mother operates. When she wants solitude, she disconnects completely. No calls, no screens, no distractions. She’s safe."
Elena nodded slowly, leaning against the counter. "Good. Let her be. If we call her every hour demanding updates, we defeat the entire purpose of her going. We have to show her that we can function without constantly leaning on her emotional labor."
"So, what do we do about dinner?" Mark asked, walking through the back door with the boys trailing behind him, their cheeks rosy from the cold air. "The boys are asking if we’re ordering pizza or if we’re attempting to cook something ourselves."
May you like
Clara stood up from the stool, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through her exhaustion. She walked over to the pantry and pulled down a bag of flour, a tin of baking powder, and a jar of cinnamon.
"We cook," Clara said firmly. "We’re going to make Grandma’s apple pie. And it’s probably going to be a disaster, and the crust is going to be completely uneven, but we’re going to make it ourselves."
