Ruth’s apartment has always been a refuge for me. To some she might come off as unfeeling, like she’s made of steel, because she keeps her emotions on a tight leash. But I know a different side of her. I know the woman who let me sleep on her sofa after my mom left, whenever Dad was on the road and I didn’t want to be alone because I was having nightmares. Who rested a cool cloth across my forehead when I had the flu. Who made tea and drank it with me while I cried over my heart, which Tate had shattered when he left Whittier. And I know the woman whose husband went through the tunnel with Becky from the second floor and never came back. Ruth may not show her feelings, but they’re there; they just run so deep they’re cool.

Still, Ruth doesn’t invite me in, and drifting out from behind her in a mouthwatering breeze is the aroma of oranges and cinnamon.

“Were you baking?” I ask doubtfully. The air is rich with buttery dough, and my stomach responds with a quiet growl. “It smells amazing, Ruth. When did you—” Movement from behind her, and then a cough or a sneeze brings my eyebrows together. “Is someone here?”

Ruth sighs and pushes the door all the way open. “It’s Alice, Claire. She’s here and I know she’d love to talk to you.”

Her name hits me like the cold winter wind that sweeps up from the harbor, and for a second I can’t get my breath.

Ruth’s eyes soften. “Come in.”

My mother appears from behind Ruth, the same and yet so different from how I remember her last—stumbling down a row of folding chairs, her eyes glazed and too bright, tripping, falling, grasping for anything to keep herself upright. Her words smushed together in a long slur. ImsoproudofyouClaire.

“I’ve moved back to Whittier, Claire.”

I cross my arms against the painful beating of my heart. “Why?”

She doesn’t answer, wringing her hands like she’s unsure of herself. “I would like very much to be part of your life, if you’ll have me.” Her shoulders rise when she takes in a long breath. Like she’s preparing for battle. I feel my face harden. If she wants forgiveness, that is not something I can give, nor is it something I think she has the right to ask. Not after all the pain she’s caused me and Dad, even Ruth, who stands there likes she’s forgotten it all. My lips press into a firm line. I remember for all of us.

“I haven’t been back long, but I don’t believe you’ve written it down yet.” She smiles, and lines fan out from her eyes. “That’s okay—when you’re ready.”