Page 6 of Five Summer Wishes

WILLA

T he next morning, I made everyone coffee.

Which should’ve been the first sign that something was off.

I didn’t make coffee. I existed near coffee. I commented on it. I flirted with baristas to get free extra shots. But this morning, I woke up early, found the good beans, and even frothed oat milk like some kind of semi-domesticated forest witch.

“Okay,” I said, balancing three mugs like a caffeine fairy with boundary issues. “Family meeting. Porch swing. Mandatory attendance. No excuses.”

Harper looked up from her laptop like I’d just threatened to set it on fire.

June raised one eyebrow, suspicious.

“I made you coffee,” I said, handing them each a mug. “That’s how serious I am. Now come on. We’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?” Harper asked flatly.

“The thing Iris told us to do,” I said, gesturing with both hands like a motivational speaker in a cult documentary. “Sit on the porch swing together. Every day. Even if we don’t want to. Especially if we don’t want to.”

June blinked. “You read the next card?”

“Don’t act so shocked. I read things. Especially when they’re wrapped in ribbon and emotionally manipulative.”

I was already halfway out the door before they could argue.

The porch was warm from the sun. The swing creaked under my weight as I flopped onto it, crossing my legs and sipping from my own mug. The other two followed reluctantly, like they were heading to a performance review.

We sat shoulder to shoulder. The chain creaked gently. The silence between us was filled with clinking mugs and internal resistance.

“So,” I said brightly. “Therapy. Let’s unpack some trauma.”

Harper sighed. “Must we?”

“Have you met Iris? She left us a checklist . You think she won’t haunt us if we skip steps?”

June stared out at the yard. “She’d wait until 2 a.m. and knock over a lamp just to make a point.”

“Exactly,” I said. “So let’s get our emotional gold stars and start talking.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “I don’t know how to do this,” Harper said.

I looked at her. For once, she didn’t sound sarcastic or annoyed. Just… honest.

“Do what?”

“Sit still. Be seen. Not perform.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Me neither.”

We sipped in unison. A tiny, messed-up chorus line of coping.

“I hate how hard this is,” June said after a minute. “I thought it would get easier. Being around each other.”

“It will ,” I said, nudging her knee with mine. “Right after we all cry in a circle and maybe scream into a pillow. Classic sisterhood stuff.”

Harper almost smiled.

I leaned back and let the swing move. The breeze kissed the back of my neck. Someone a few blocks over was mowing their lawn. Lily’s laughter echoed from the kitchen, soft and distant.

This moment felt stitched together. So I said the thing I hadn’t said before.

“I don’t stay anywhere because I’m afraid if I do, people will start expecting things I can’t give them.”

June’s head turned toward me, slow and sharp.

Harper stilled.

“I loved a man once,” I said. “Enough that it scared the shit out of me. I wanted to be everything. And when I couldn’t… when I wasn’t… it fell apart. Fast.”

No one moved.

I didn’t look at them. “I left before he could ask me to. Because I knew I wouldn’t survive being told I wasn’t enough.”

The swing creaked again.

I sipped my coffee.

Nobody said anything for a long time.

The wind moved through the porch rails. A truck passed on the next street over. My coffee was cold, but I kept holding the mug like it was keeping me anchored.

Eventually, June shifted beside me. Her voice, when it came, was soft. But not unsure.

“I’m scared of staying, too,” she said. “But for different reasons.”

Harper glanced over, and I stayed still. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t lighten the moment with a joke.

“I stay because everyone needs me to,” June said. “Because if I leave—even just to take a breath—I worry everything will fall apart. Lily. Work. My whole life.”

She swallowed.

“And I’m scared that the second I stop being useful, people will stop needing me. And if no one needs me... what’s left?”

That one hit harder than anything I’d said.

She looked down into her mug. “I know that’s not healthy. But it’s real.”

I reached over and rested my hand on her leg. Just for a second. No big speech. Just... I hear you .

Harper looked like she might bolt. Not because she didn’t care. Because she did, and caring made her come unglued.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t have anything profound to add. I’m just... trying. That’s all I’ve got right now.”

I nodded. “Trying is good. Trying counts.”

We sat there for another stretch of silence. And this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was quiet like shared understanding. Like stitching. Like the first seam holding.

Then Harper shifted gears. “What’s the next wish?”

June stood, wiped her hands on her jeans, and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, she returned with the wooden box and the next card—green ribbon, tied with more precision than Iris ever showed in life.

She unfolded it, voice steady.

Wish Three:

host one event that gives back to the town.

make something beautiful. feed someone. offer a kindness.

remind them you were here.

I stared at the words like they might bite. “She really knew how to pick the nerve, didn’t she?”

Harper stood and stretched, cracking her neck. “Okay. So. We plan something. A community dinner? Donation drive? Flower planting? Memorial bench?”

“I like the food idea,” June said. “Something simple. Neighborhood potluck, maybe?”

“And we can do it here,” I offered. “The backyard’s a mess, but that’s kind of our brand.”

June smiled. “Iris would’ve liked that.”

Harper nodded. “Let’s pencil it in for next weekend.”

“Do people still say pencil it in?” I asked. “Or is that just you and the cast of Mad Men ?”

“Willa.”

“I’m just saying, there are digital tools?—”

“Willa.”

I held up my hands in surrender.

That night, after the dishwasher had run its little symphony of suds and steam, I found myself upstairs, alone in the guest room.

It was dark, except for the light from the moon pouring across the floorboards.

I sat on the bed with my sketchbook and stared at the blank page.

No agenda. No gallery deadline. No client expectations.

Just me. And the need to turn the ache into something.

I started to draw.

Not the porch swing. Not the house.

A hand.

Holding another hand.

Then I added a third.

Three hands, overlapping at the palms, knotted like vines.

No one would ever see it. Not unless I let them.

But it made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Connected.

Still broken in places. But... stitched, too.