Page 44 of At First Spark
“You pace when you think,” she says. “You scrub counters that are already clean. You water plants like it’s a tactical operation.”
I glance at her then. She’s watching me openly now, one brow slightly raised, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll deny it.
I don’t.
Instead, I say, “You watched me water plants.”
She faces forward again, but not before I catch the faint color moving up her neck.
“That wasn’t the point.”
No. It wasn’t. That’s what makes it worse.
We reach the farm with the kind of tension sitting between us that doesn’t break when the engine shuts off. It lingers all the way through the walk to the porch, through the door opening, through the warm light inside.
Mom’s at the stove when we come in. She looks up, takes one glance at both of us, and knows something shifted.
Mothers should not have that power.
“How’d it look?” she asks.
Lark answers first. “Manageable.”
I look at her. That’s one word for it.
Mom catches the glance and says nothing about it, which somehow feels more dangerous than if she did.
“Wash up,” she says instead. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Lark stiffens just slightly. “You don’t have to feed me.”
Mom gives her a look over one shoulder. “I know.”
Then she turns back to the stove and adds, “I’m going to anyway.”
That stops the argument before it starts.
Rook trots into the kitchen and sits near Mom like he’s been here for years. She drops a piece of carrot to the floor without even looking.
I don’t miss the way Lark watches it happen. The quiet surprise. The ache that follows it.
The sink water runs warm over my hands, washing off the last of the grit from the inn, while behind me, the kitchen fills with ordinary things—pots, plates, Claire moving between counters, Rook’s nails clicking against the floor, Lark standing just outside the room like she isn’t sure whether she belongs in it.
I dry my hands and glance back. She’s still there. Still halfway in and halfway out.
I jerk my chin toward the table. “Sit down.”
Her eyes narrow. “You really enjoy telling me what to do.”
“No,” I say. “I enjoy watching you pretend not to need obvious things less.”
Mom laughs softly under her breath, and Lark catches it. And for the first time since the fire, I see a full smile threaten.
It doesn’t fully win. It gets close.
Because by the time dinner ends, and the dishes are done, and the porch light is the only thing left between us and the dark, I’m going to have a much bigger problem than lack of sleep.
Because proximity has weight. Because grief recognizes steadiness. Because sometimes the most dangerous thing in a house isn’t the stranger in your bed. It’s the moment she stops feeling like one.
