Page 16 of Five Summer Wishes

HARPER

T he email came just before sunrise.

Subject: Final Offer – Senior Counsel, Boston HQ

There it was. The thing I used to believe would define me. Title. Salary. A corner office with a view of the river and all the built-in prestige a girl raised in a small town was supposed to want like oxygen.

It was clean. Precise. Structured.

And it made my stomach turn.

I didn’t open it.

Not right away.

Instead, I pulled on a hoodie and walked to the harbor and texted Nate.

You’re not up already, are you? Heading to the harbor.

The air was damp and still. The kind of quiet that felt like it had weight to it.

Nate didn’t reply, but he was already there.

He nodded toward the foam cup of coffee sitting beside him. “Figured you could use coffee for the spiraling.”

“You always assume I’m spiraling.”

“You always are.”

I sat and pulled the cup into my hands. “They offered me the position. Full package. It’s the job I used to think I wanted more than anything.”

He sipped his coffee. “And now?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked down at the porch floor. The familiar grain of the wood. The way it had softened with years of use and sun and memory.

“I spent so much time trying to be undeniable,” I said. “To be the person no one could overlook. But now that I have the chance to go back to that… it feels like stepping into someone else’s skin.”

Nate didn’t speak.

I wasn’t even sure I wanted him to.

“I’m scared,” I said finally. “Not of failing. Of stopping.”

He turned to me, eyes steady. “Stopping what?”

“Performing. Proving. Running.”

He let that hang in the air.

Then said, “What if the version of you who stays isn’t a smaller version, but a freer one?”

My breath caught.

Because that was it.

That was the fear. That staying meant shrinking. That choosing softness meant surrender.

And yet, nothing about this life had felt like giving up.

Not with them.

Not with him.

We sat on the porch until the sun pushed over the horizon.

Then I stood.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said.

“Anytime,” he said. “And Harper?”

“Yeah?”

“If you stay, make sure it’s for you. Not for anyone else.”

“I know.”

And this time, I meant it.

I didn’t tell Willa and June right away. I needed to sit with the knowing first. Let it settle in my body. Let it feel real.

So I spent the morning cleaning the pantry. It was the kind of mindless work that felt productive without requiring anything emotional. I sorted spices, wiped down shelves, found three expired cans of cranberry sauce, and remembered that Iris had once labeled them holiday insurance.

By noon, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by paper towels and half-organized spice jars, when Willa appeared in the doorway.

“Are you nesting or unraveling?” she asked.

“Can’t it be both?”

She came in, sat across from me, and grabbed a jar of cumin. “I used to think achievement was about skyscrapers and titles. But lately I think it might just be about building a life you want to wake up in.”

I blinked. “Is that a quote?”

“No, but feel free to embroider it on a pillow.”

We sat for a minute, the air between us full of the kind of silence only sisters earn.

Then I said, “They offered me the job. The big one.”

June appeared with a basket of laundry, froze in the doorway. “You got it?”

I nodded.

“And?”

“I said no.”

The words landed in the room like a bell.

Clear. Final.

Willa’s eyes widened. “You sure?”

“I am.”

“Because—”

“I’m sure.”

June set down the laundry and sat beside me.

Willa leaned back against the wall.

“Why?” she asked, not pushing… just curious.

I looked around the room. At the mismatched jars. The half-folded dish towels. The photo on the fridge of the three of us at the potluck, grinning like we hadn’t broken in a thousand different ways before that moment.

“Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life trying to earn something I’ve already proven I can survive without.”

June’s eyes filled. Willa’s smile softened.

And something in my chest eased for the first time in years.

That night, I pulled out a blank page from Iris’s old stationery drawer.

And I wrote.

Dear Iris,

You probably knew before I did. You always did.

This place, this house, these people… they’re not detours. They’re not delays. They’re not what’s left when everything else didn’t work out.

They’re home.

I used to think I had to keep moving to matter. That if I stopped… really stopped… everything I’d built would fall apart.

But what if it’s not about building a ladder? What if it’s about planting roots?

I said no to the job. Not because I failed. But because I’m ready to stay.

And I think you’d be proud of that.

I miss you. Thank you for the wishes. For the map. For reminding me what it feels like to be wanted without condition.

Love,

Harper

Then I opened my laptop, pulled up the email from Boston, and typed one sentence.

Thank you for the opportunity. I’ve chosen to stay where I am.

I hit send.

And I didn’t look back.