“He wanted me to stay. To be his mate. But he wasn’t the love of my life. For a little while, I worried that he might be. That I might have left a great love behind. But then I met your father a year later and realized what true love is.” She reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “What I meant to say is, I think Minnie knew I was sneaking out. She was probably terrified that I was getting close to the wolves. So, when I left, even though I left her behind, I also left them behind. I think she would have rather given up the chance to see me than risk me associating with the pack.”

The image my mother describes of my grandmother isn’t exactly flattering, but it does give me another perspective to consider.

And yet the end result is still a rift that left the woman in Pine Falls lonely and cut off.

“I feel like staying here would be choosing to give you all up,” I admit. “Maybe you’re right. I’m not the same as Minnie. But I’m also not the same as you. You snuck out of windows for a chance at freedom. I wall myself up. Without my brothers’ badgering, who’s to say what happened in college won’t happen again? I don’t think I can do this alone.”

Even thinking about that time in my past makes my chest tight.

What would Warner think of that version of me?

Logically, I know depression is a disease. That it’s not my fault.

But I can’t help the shame that cuts at my nerves when I imagine him witnessing me in my darkest place.

“Sweetheart, listen. Just for a minute. Sit here with me and listen.”

“I have been⁠—”

Mom puts her finger to my lips, cutting me off. I roll my eyes, but shut my mouth, bracing for her next argument, ready to rebut with more explanations of how different I am from my family.

We can’t be viewed through the same lens. They’re rib-crushing hugs while I’m tight smiles. They’re permanent markers and I’m light pencil lines. They’re vibrant life, and I keep to the shadows.

I have all these words ready to go, but with no chance to use them because my mother doesn’t speak. She sits still and watches me. The only sound comes from the front porch, where my brothers harmonize their instruments, playing a folk song I recognize as one they commonly choose to warm up with. The music takes me to our backyard at family picnics and dingy bars, where I ferried beers to the stage.

“Don’t you hear it?” Mom asks, her eyes boring into mine.

“The music?”

“The love.” Her long fingers cup my cheek. “They’re all here. Did you ask them to come?”