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Chapter Thirteen

Emma

T he Carter family home sits perched on Iron Ridge's east side with its impossibly perfect white trim and meticulously maintained shrubs. It's landscape art that practically stands at attention as I walk up the path.

Like miniature soldiers reporting for duty.

Carter family disappointment approaching, ma'am! Shall we commence silent judgment, ma'am?

I park my car at the curb rather than the driveway and slide out. A leftover habit from teenage years when quick escapes were sometimes necessary.

This house may look like a magazine spread, but the carefully maintained exterior hides the emotional minefield waiting for me inside.

My phone buzzes with a text from Logan: Good luck. Remember, you're amazing. Call me after if you need rescuing.

I smile, warmth blooming in my chest.

I'd declined his offer to accompany me to Melanie's birthday dinner tonight. The thought of subjecting him to my mother's passive-aggressive commentary felt unnecessarily cruel, like introducing a wolf to a room full of snapping turtles.

Next time , I'd promised him.

If there is a next time. If tonight doesn't dissolve into the usual mixture of thinly veiled criticism and comparisons to my perfect sister.

"There she is!" Melanie calls from the porch, as if right on cue, waving enthusiastically as I approach. "The busy entrepreneur herself!"

My sister looks radiant in a simple floral dress, her blonde hair pulled back in an effortless ponytail that still somehow looks magazine-worthy.

Because of course it does. It's Melanie. My perfect sister.

She has James perched on her hip, the youngest of her three perfect children, while Ben and Maddie are visible through the window, playing angelically in the living room.

"Happy birthday," I say, hugging her awkwardly around the toddler. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late."

"Coffee emergency?" Melanie teases, but her smile is kind.

"Something like that."

More like a dozen espresso shots to fortify myself, but who's counting?

I follow her inside, where the familiar scent of our mother's signature pot roast and lemon furniture polish washes over me.

The house hasn't changed in decades. Same formal furniture, same stale emptiness, same family photos arranged in perfect chronological order on the mantel.

But…

Wait .

Something is different.

I notice my graduation photo has been replaced with a newer one. It's a picture of me cutting the ribbon at Chapter & Grind's opening day.

The sight stops me in my tracks.

"Emma!" My mother emerges from the kitchen, perfectly coiffed in a pastel sweater set, pearls gleaming at her throat as though she's expecting the Queen for tea, not her messy second daughter. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten."

"Hi, Mom." I accept the brief, perfumed hug, the scent of Chanel No. 5 bringing back a childhood of trying not to disappoint this woman. "Sorry, the café was busy today."

"Well, at least that's good news." Cynthia Carter's smile only ever lifts one side of her mouth. "And how is your little shop doing? Still managing to pay the rent, dear?"

And there it is.

Record time, even for her.

"Actually, it's doing really well." I straighten my shoulders slightly. "I'm in the finals for this contest that would let me expand to the arena."

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "The hockey arena? That sounds... interesting."

"It's a big deal, Mom," Melanie interjects, bouncing the baby on her hip. "Emma's coffee is all anyone can talk about after hockey games."

I shoot her a grateful look. Melanie might have the perfect-daughter crown, but she's always been surprisingly supportive about my "rebellious" career path.

"Well." Mom busies herself straightening an already perfect table setting. "I suppose that's something."

Coming from Cynthia Carter, it's practically a standing ovation.

My father appears from his study, silver-haired and wearing his customary button-down tucked neatly into khakis.

"Emma!" His hug is warmer than Mom's, at least. "How's business?"

"It's good, Dad. Really good."

"She's expanding to the arena," Melanie interjects.

"Maybe," I cut in. "If I win."

Dad's eyebrows raise. "Need any financial advice? I know a hockey arena deal could mean complicated contracts—"

"I've got it handled," I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. "But thanks."

Melanie's husband Brad appears with a glass of wine for me.

"Well, well, well… Logan Kane, huh?" he says with a grin. "Saw him destroy that guy from Boston last week. Legendary."

"Hello, Brad. And he's more than just a fighter," I say automatically, then realize Brad's comment was actually admiring. "But yeah, he's pretty amazing on the ice."

Dinner progresses with the usual Carter family choreography.

Brad carves the roast beef while Melanie manages the children. Mom presides at the head of the table, orchestrating the conversation with practiced social grace, while Dad discusses investment trends and property values with Brad as he carves.

Surprisingly, I make it all the way to the salad course before the strike comes.

"So, Emma," Mom says during a momentary lull, dabbing her lips with a crisp linen napkin. "How is that hockey player of yours? Logan, is it?"

I set down my fork deliberately. "Yes, Logan. Logan Kane. He's good."

"Did you know, Cynthia… he's the enforcer for the Icehawks," Brad pipes up, suddenly interested in engaging with my mother. "Tough player. Great reputation in the locker room."

"An enforcer?" My mother's nose wrinkles at the word.

"He protects his team," I say, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "And he's kind, thoughtful, and probably the most genuine person I've ever met."

"Hmm." Mom takes a deliberate sip of wine. "And is this... relationship... serious?"

"Yes." I say it without hesitation, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "It is."

"Oh, Emma!" Melanie beams across the table. "That's wonderful! The kids adored him at the festival. So… when do we get to meet him properly?"

"Yes, when indeed?" Mom's smile tightens. "Perhaps next month's garden club luncheon? I'm sure the ladies would love to meet your... hockey player."

"Logan isn't a show pony, Mom." My knuckles whiten around my glass. "And he's more than just a hockey player."

"Of course, dear. I only meant—"

"I know what you meant." My voice is quiet but firm as I set my fork down with a clunk.

"The same thing you meant when you called Chapter & Grind my 'little coffee shop.

' Or when you suggested I go back to school for accounting.

Or when you told Aunt Judith that my business was a 'phase' I was working through. "

Melanie's eyes widen, her fork pausing midway to her mouth. Brad suddenly becomes very interested in helping Ben cut his meat. My father clears his throat, looking predictably uncomfortable.

"Emma." Mom's voice carries a warning. "This isn't the time or place."

"It never is, Mom." I fold my napkin carefully, trying to channel Logan's calm strength as if he were sitting right here beside me. "But Logan is important to me. He believes in me. In what I'm building. And I'd appreciate it if you could at least try to do the same."

The silence stretches thin as tissue paper.

Mom looks genuinely startled, as if she can't quite reconcile this version of me. The girl with a backbone. The daughter who used to fold herself into smaller and smaller pieces trying to fit her expectations, but will no longer continue to do so.

"I... I only want what's best for you."

"This is what's best for me," I say, softer now. "My café. My life in Iron Ridge. Logan."

And I mean every word.

Dad raises his glass slightly, that subtle gesture of approval warming me more than I expect.

"Well, I'd like to meet the man who's put that smile on your face, Emma."

"Me too," Brad volunteers. "I've got questions about that check he threw in the final Vegas game."

"Well," Mom says finally, reaching for the serving spoon as if we haven't just had the most honest conversation of our adult relationship. "Yes, well. I suppose you're all right. We'll have to meet this young man properly then."

It's not acceptance. Not quite.

But it's the closest we've come in years.

Later, as I help clear the dishes, Melanie bumps her hip gently against mine.

"That was... impressive," she whispers. "I've never seen you stand up to Mom like that."

"Me neither." I admit, stacking dessert plates. "It felt..."

"Liberating?"

"Terrifying. But also... right." I smile, thinking of Logan. "He would have been proud."

"He sounds good for you." Melanie's voice carries unexpected sincerity. "I'm glad, Em. Really."

"Thanks." I hesitate, then add, "Your life is pretty great too, you know. These kids, Brad... you've built something beautiful."

She squeezes my hand and smiles. "We have different dreams, Emma. But both are valid."

When I leave that night, Mom presses a small package into my hands.

"A belated birthday gift," she says stiffly. "I saw it and thought of you."

I open it once I'm safely in my car, letting a vintage brass coffee scoop, delicately engraved with swirling patterns, fall into my lap.

It's beautiful. Thoughtful, even.

I run my thumb over the intricate design, something tight in my chest loosening just slightly.

It's not an apology.

But it's a beginning .

I place the scoop on the passenger seat and pull out my phone.

I survived ! I text Logan. And something unexpected happened. I think I found my voice.

His response is immediate: Never doubted you for a second, Coffee Witch. Proud of you.

I lean back against the headrest, smiling up at the stars above Iron Ridge. For the first time in forever, I'm driving away from my parents' house feeling lighter, not heavier.