“We know how strong you are.” My mom reaches out to clasp my hand. “And we also know that your mind lies to you sometimes. That it tells you that you don’t deserve happiness. We’re here to remind you that you do and that you’re loved.”

Mom tilts her head toward the front porch, and I hear the strains of Maren Morris’s “The Bones.” The same song I had on repeat the week leading up to my leaving for Pine Falls.

“To be honest, I think they needed to see you more than you needed them.”

“They … hell, Mom.” My fingers curl into claws around their invisible collective neck. I’d never really strangle them. Only in my imagination. “They piss me off so much.”

She chuckles but tries to restrain the reaction when I glare at her.

“It’s disheartening. Having to choose to live with their constant smothering just so I don’t drown.”

Humor leaves her then, and she squeezes my palm. “You won’t drown, sweetheart. I promise you.”

“You don’t know, Mom.” I feel like there’s only one person who does. And she’s gone.

But maybe I can make my mother understand.

I pull free and hobble away, toward the back bedroom. The boom box sits beside the bed. I grab it and the precious wooden box full of decades-old tapes, returning to the kitchen.

“I found these. Do you recognize them?”

After gently placing the box in front of my mom, I set the stereo up on the counter, plugging it in.

“These … they’re not …” When I turn, she has a tape in her hand, staring at it like she’s cradling a ghost.

I limp over, choosing another from the collection at random and popping it into the player. After a moment, we hear a voice.

“Good morning, Colorado! It’s your girl, Silly Selena, back with the best beats in town⁠—”

Seeing the shimmer in my mom’s eyes, I stop the tape.

“They’re all you. Every one. Grandma Minnie listened to you. She loved you, but you never spoke.” I sigh, collapsing into a chair across from my mom. “Living here, I can see myself drifting away. Just like she did.”

My mom is quiet for some time, her fingers tracing over all the tapes.

“I understand, Zoey. Where you’re coming from … I understand. But it’s not the same thing.”

I huff, but she waves to keep me quiet.

“You know some of my childhood. That my father died in a motorcycle accident. That your grandmother kept me secluded. That I left when I was eighteen and never looked back.” She sucks in a bracing breath, and I find myself reaching for my tea. “But that’s just a rough outline. You deserve the whole story.”