Page 20 of Five Summer Wishes

JUNE

I t’s September now.

The last of the summer sun stretches golden across the porch as I tuck a blanket around Lily’s legs. She’s curled up on the swing, reading one of her mystery books for the third time, sipping cider like she invented the season.

Inside, Grant’s in the kitchen. I can hear the hum of his voice as he talks to Harper about fixing the broken drawer near the pantry. She’s laughing, that real, unguarded sound she used to keep behind her teeth.

Iris’s journal is still on the windowsill. I haven’t opened it in a while.

Not because I’ve forgotten her—but because I finally stopped needing her voice more than my own.

The wishes led us here.

But the choice to stay?

That was all ours.

Willa

The gallery smells like paint, old wood, and promise.

My exhibit opens tomorrow night. I hung the last piece this morning—one I didn’t think I’d ever finish.

It’s not flashy. Not loud. Just three hands, knotted at the wrist, outlined in gold and filled with scraps of our old lives—a swatch of Iris’s quilt, a photo of Lily’s tree, a recipe written in Harper’s handwriting.

I call it The Wish.

Sawyer hasn’t seen it yet.

But he will.

After the opening, we’re going to take a drive. Not away. Not out.

Just… through.

He wants to show me a piece of land he’s been working on. Said it has a porch big enough for painting, and a window that catches the morning light like forgiveness.

For once, I didn’t ask how long we’d be there.

Because I already know I’ll stay as long as it feels like truth.

Harper

The bakery opens in twelve minutes.

Yes. A bakery.

It started with the kitchen drawer Sawyer fixed. Then the sourdough starter Willa named "Yeast Witherspoon.” Then the list June made of every single person in town who missed Iris’s lemon bars.

Now we have a schedule, an espresso machine, and a line out the door on Saturdays.

And I still have my planner.

But it holds different things now.

Lily’s school calendar.

Willa’s gallery schedule.

Grant and June’s ridiculous “date night rotation.”

Weekly dinners on the porch.

A blank page every Sunday to do absolutely nothing but rest.

Sometimes I wake up and wonder how I got here.

But then I smell cinnamon.

And I hear laughter.

And I remember—I didn’t fall into this.

I chose it.

All of Us

On the last warm night of the season, we gather on the porch.

Lily’s in the swing with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn. June sits cross-legged on the floor, sketching the way the light hits the windows. Harper’s curled up with a book, one leg tucked under her, reading aloud a passage we all laugh at but never remember the next day.

And Willa?—

Willa leans forward with her Polaroid and says, “Okay. One more.”

We pose.

We smile.

The camera clicks.

And in the stillness that follows, none of us says anything.

Because we don’t have to.

We’re here.

We stayed.

And we’re home.