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“What surgery?” She ignores me, shimmying herself between me and the counter, politely shoving me back. “Mum.”

“I had a minor surgery on my hands last year. It was supposed to help with the arthritis.”

“And did it?”

Her brown curly hair falls in her face as she continues dicing her potatoes and vegetables. “For a while. It didn’t make me the bionic woman by any means. But yeah, I have days now where I can do more than I was able to before the surgery.”

It feels like the room trudges to a halt, like a train on a track, running out of steam. Those same hands that used to guide my small fingers around the kitchen seem to cut and dice in agonizing slow motion, those once perfect hands now swollen and aged. I’m trying to wrap my mind around what she's telling me, but I’m thrown off by how casually she says it. I know I’ve been gone for a while but, what the fuck? How did no one think to pick up the phone and call me?

“Mum, why don’t you hire someone full-time to help you in here?” I catch the hint of panic laced through my voice.

“I’ve looked into it,” she says, bringing her chopped vegetables over to a large pot on the stove. I never would have thought twice about a fucking pot before, but now I’m concerned with how it got there and if she hurt herself in the process. “Liv helps most days when she can, and eventually, I will hire someone full-time, but I just… I just can’t hire anyone to take over my kitchen.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, and she slumps into my side and lets out a long breath. This kitchen has been my mum's baby since before she had babies. She started working here after secondary school, when she and my father started dating, and a handful of years later she took over from my dad’s mum. Things have changed over the decades—like the chef's stove that she had installed and smaller items here and there. But for the most part, the kitchen has remained thesame. I understand—probably better than most—what she’s feeling at the thought of giving it up.

I swallow the lump in my throat and pull her in a little tighter.

“I wish you would have told me about your surgery,” I say.

“Oh honey, you were busy and it was nothing for you to worry over.” That stings almost as bad as not knowing. My family and friends have always been so supportive, but at what cost? I’m gutted that she thought she couldn’t call me because it would have inconvenienced me. I want to be upset with her, but the truth is, my attitude and my actions are the sole reason she thought she couldn’t.

We season the meat together in silence, side-by-side. Even though I’ll be leaving again eventually, I vow to myself right here and now, that I will never allow anything to consume my life again to the point that I no longer know what’s going on in my own family’s lives.

Taylor

My alarm wentoff at nine a.m., and I only hit the snooze button three times. I metaphorically pat myself on the back because that’s progress, baby! I slip into a pair of jeans and an overpriced crewneck I picked up during one of my layovers and quickly snap a picture of the view from my window to send to Camila before heading downstairs.

I hitthe bottom of the stairs, expecting to run into a number of people, but I’m met with near silence instead. So quiet, in fact, I’m able to pick up on the familiar sound of oil sizzling from the swinging door that leads into the kitchen. Even the front desk, being manned by only a hand-painted sign that sits on a little wooden chair in the corner.

Breakfast served daily: 6 a.m. - 8 a.m.

Dinner served daily: 5:00p.m.

Well, I’m screwed.

I never thought I’d be someone who can be distracted by food, but the glimpse of a photograph snatches my attention. I glance down the length of the wall, realizing that there is an array of them for my nosey butt to study. Most are in black and white, but there is one that is in eye-catching color. A mom stands with a toddler on her hip, and a young boy with a very serious expression stands next to her, holding one side of a piece of wood while his dad holds the other. There is a third little boy standing at his mom’s legs with an ear-to-ear smile, the world’s smallest hammer in his grip.

Instinctively I reach up, tracing the etches in the frame.

“You must be—” My heart lurches into my throat and I practically jump out of my skin. I turn to find an older man smiling at me, dropping my hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Adam Browning.”

It doesn’t take me any time at all to read that he is wearing a friendly smile, and not a murderous one, and my heart regulates.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Browning. I’m Taylor.”

“Oh please, call me Adam.” He waves a tan, weathered hand. “What brings you to Stoney Meadow, Taylor?”

I really should have spent more time coming up with a suitable answer for this question that everyone seems to ask. “How could Inotcome here? Have you seen this place? It’s incredible. You have a beautiful property.”

His smile is warm, just like Knox’s. Everything about him resembles Knox, minus his height and build. A little more gray hair, and deeper crinkles at his eyes, but they’re the kind of lines that say.‘Yeah, I’ve had a fun, fulfilled life.’The kind that somehow keeps him youthful.

“Ahh well, thank you. What are you up to today? Do you need a tour guide? We have some lads around here who would be happy to get out of their stable duties for the dayand drive you around. Or we have bikes for use, propped up over here.” He nods his head and moves to head to the front door. “Come, I’ll show ya.”

I’m not much of a bike rider but he’s excited to be helpful so I follow him to the wrap-around porch.

“There.” He points to four pastel-colored, vintage-style beach cruisers andmy accident-prone ass could never.

“You know what? I think I’m going to stretch my legs instead. Get a little walk in.”