Page 28 of Shattered Promise

But part of me still holds back when I reply.

Like if I say too much, I’ll tip my hand. Like I’ll start needing it—needinghim. And I already learned that lesson the hard way.

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone light. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“Me too, honey. Maybe you can sneak back home soon. It’s so nice having all my kids together, you know? Pretty soon, we’re gonna need a bigger table. I have a feeling your brothers are gonna be dads before long.” She says it in that knowing, singsong cadence she reserves for sharing small-town gossip.

I arch a brow, though she can’t see it. “Why? Did something happen tonight?”

“No one told me anything, if that’s what you’re asking. But I saw the way Francesca was looking at Theo, and I’m telling you, Abby, that woman has babies on the brain.”

I shift my weight, stealing a glance around the aisle to make sure I’m still alone. “She just opened a bookstore, though. And they’ve only been married a little while.”

Mom hums like she already has the timeline mapped out. “When you know, you know.”

I smile, already knowing what she’s going to say next.

“I knew as soon as I met your father he was the one. We got married only six months after meeting, and a year later, we had Graham.”

“And the rest is history,” we say at the same time.

She chuckles, and I grin—until it pulls at the tender skin beneath my eye. The smile slips off my face before I can catch it.

“You know,” Mom says after a beat, her voice softening into something wistful, “I used to think you and Jake would be like me and your dad.”

The words scrape across something raw. I clear my throat. “Mom.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just saying?—”

“I know what you’re saying,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. “And I just—it’s been a year. Drop it, okay?”

She sighs, long and disappointed. The kind that used to follow a mess in the kitchen or a forgotten curfew, not from me though. The kind that makes me feel twelve again. I don’t have to see her to picture the expression on her face. I can feel her weighing whether to let it go or say what she really thinks.

“I know, Abby. I just"—she exhales slowly—“I can’t help it if I want my daughter to be happy and fulfilled. You’ve got your dream job, now all you need is your dream partner.”

The words land soft, but they still bruise. Because to her, it probably sounds simple. A job I’m good at. A person to love. A life that looks full from the outside.

But what if I’ve already failed at that? What if I had the person once and walked away? What if I don’t want the version of fulfillment she’s describing, but I don’t know what I want instead?

A tight, invisible band wraps around my ribs. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to ease it. It doesn’t budge.

“I know,” I say quietly, not because it’s true but because it’s easier than arguing. “Look, I have to go, okay? But I’ll talk to you next week.”

“All right, honey. Have a good week. I love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.” I end the call before she can say anything else. Before she can hear the waver in my voice I don’t know how to explain.

By the timethe next Uber crests the hill toward the cabin, it’s nearly eleven. The road narrows and bends, flanked on both sides by towering evergreens and a stillness so deep it feels like memory.

And then I see it: Nana Jo’s cabin.

Cabin feels like a misnomer. It’s a tiny country cottage tucked into the edge of a meadow, half-swallowed by trees and time.

White siding and a porch big enough for an outdoor patio set. Windows that blink back hollow and unfamiliar. It’s smaller than I remember, but maybe that’s just because I was young the last time I saw it. The porch light is still on, casting a soft gold glow over the front steps like a held breath.

The driver helps me unload my suitcases, wishes me a good night, and drives off without asking questions.

I stand on the stone path, bag strap digging into my shoulder, key in one hand.