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I don’t look at her, too worried that it will spook her.

“What makes you think you have?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just…this was supposed to be a reset. Or a fresh start at the very least. A chance to figure things out. And now I already feel off-course.”

I let her words settle before responding. There’s no use rushing someone who’s still trying to find the shape of what they’re feeling.

“I’ve spent most of my life thinking I had to earn everything. Even the idea of wanting something for myself felt selfish.”

There’s more she doesn’t say, but I don’t push. I shift slightly and rest my arm along the back of the bench, not touching her, but close enough that her soft hair brushes my skin.

“I keep thinking I’ll feel free. That was the whole point of running. And I do. But now, deep down I just feel...”

She stops. Frowns. “Exposed.”

That, I understand.

“You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that doesn’t feel true.”

She looks at me with wide eyes, somewhere between confusion and relief.

“Even if it changes?”

“Especially if it changes.”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of her sweater sleeve. “I think I thought that doing something truly for myself would fix everything.”

“It won’t.”

“I know that now.”

“But it’s a start.”

We sit a while longer after that. The air has cooled, but neither of us moves to go inside. When she finally stands, she doesn’t rush. She just reaches for the door, gives me a long look and a small smile, and disappears back into the house.

I stay where I am, enjoying the cool air and thinking about our conversation.

She’s still figuring out how to be herself.

And I’m still trying to pretend I don’t notice every step she takes to get there.

Mae finishes her last bite of macaroni with the kind of quiet defiance only a five-year-old can pull off—jaw set, eyes forward, not looking at Ani even once. She chews slowly, deliberately, dragging out each bite until the bowl is empty, then pushes it toward the center of the table without a word.

Ani, to her credit, keeps her tone light. “You did a great job with that. All gone.”

There’s no reply. Mae slips off her chair and takes her bowl to the sink, then climbs onto the step stool to rinse it. It’s a new habit—something Boone’s been working on with her—and she’s secretly proud of it, though she doesn’t show it. Ani hovers just behind, drying her hands on a dish towel, eyes flicking between Mae and the bowl.

“Do you want me to wash that for you?” she asks gently.

Mae ignores her. Not even a glance. She climbs down, grabs her stuffed fox from the table and disappears into the living room.

The tension settles in instantly. Ani doesn’t say anything at first, just lowers her gaze and nods to herself, jaw tight. The towel in her hand twists slowly.

I step beside her and take the bowl myself, not because she can’t handle it, but because she shouldn’t have to carry that disappointment alone.

“She’s not mad at you,” I say, rinsing the bowl and handing it over for drying.

“I don’t think she even sees me,” she answers, quieter now. “She doesn’t have to say anything. I can feel it.”