“You’re home.” Her perfectly manicured brows lift in surprise. She’s wearing dark orange, wide-leg pants, a top that’s cinched at the waist and a cute little denim jacket. It looks perfect on her, but would make me look like an Oompa-Loompa. After a pause, she steps into me, enveloping me in a hug that smells like vanilla and sunshine and home.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over me.

We used to be close, a united force against the stalwart force of our mother. A team.

She steps back. “I thought you’d be at work.”

So that’s why she’s coming over in the middle of the day and not bothering to knock. To leave me a note when she knows I’m not home.

But why bother?

I clasp my hands in front of me. I need to ask. To push through this.

I can’t control anything she feels, says, or does, but I can control my part in our relationship.

“Do you want some tea or something?”

She nods. “Yes. Please.”

I move into the kitchen. She shuts the door behind her, clutching a small vintage purse in her hands.

I turn on the electric kettle on the counter and grab some mugs and tea bags from the cupboard.

Eloise stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, her eyes following me.

“Darjeeling okay?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You can sit down.”

She nods, blonde head jerking up and down, and then disappears into the living room.

The kettle heats. I bring the cups over to where she’s perched on the corner of my couch like she’s scared to relax.

I sit next to her. “I’m glad you came over.”

She turns, angling her body in my direction. “You are?”

And then I tell her something I should have said a long time ago. “I need to apologize.”

She blinks. “You do?”

“I know we haven’t been close in a long time, and it’s mostly my fault.” My voice is only slightly tremulous as I speak. But it’s not with worry. It’s with relief.

Her mouth pops open.

I continue. The only way out is through. “The truth is that I’ve been jealous.”

She makes a strangled sound, coughing, and then puts her mug on the coffee table. She takes a breath and then meets my gaze. “Jane, you have no reason to be jealous of me. And I’m the one that should be apologizing. I was pushy and overbearing, I was . . . Mom.” She grimaces. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to not be our mom.”

I laugh. “Me too. You aren’t Mom. And you were right, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.”

She shakes her head. “No. I wasn’t right. You can do whatever you want. It’s not my place to tell you how to live your life.”