TEN YEARS AGO “I want to be a mother,” Monet said softly. “I want to hold my own child, rock them to sleep, console them when they're sad, go to their games and cook them lunch and breakfast, bake cookies and all the works.” She rushed the words out. The fear that the thought alone might be too big, too impossible, made her say it quickly, as if she slowed down, it would crumble before it left her lips.She was eighteen, seated in the quiet convent library, her hands fisted tightly on her thighs atop her soft white habit. Outside, snow clung to the windowsill in thick, white clumps. But inside, everything felt smaller. Safer. Except for the dream she had just spoken aloud.Sister Margaret looked up from her embroidery, her forehead crinkling with gentle curiosity. “Why does that scare you?” Monet shrugged, eyes still on the steam curling from her cup. “Because it feels selfish. Because wanting something doesn’t mean you get it. And maybe I don’t deserve it.
The morning light poured in through the tall windows of the Elmsworth manor, stretching long shadows across the tiled floors. Richard stood in the kitchen, his hand clenched around a chipped mug of black coffee he hadn’t touched. The silence in the house was louder than it had been in years.Not since Hannah died.Not since Monet arrived.Now she was gone too.Florence sat at the kitchen island, her newspaper folded neatly in front of her, untouched like his drink. She watched her grandson with the same calculating, tender eyes she’d used since he was a boy. Richard had always been difficult to read, his emotions caged behind a glass wall. But not today.Today, the cracks were all too visible."You haven't told them yet," she said, not a question.He didn't answer."They're children, Richard. But they're not fools. Meredith knows. Carter too, in his own quiet way."He gritted his teeth, the mug finally meeting the counter with a sharp thud. "What do you want me to say, grandma? That s
Richard woke to sunlight pressing through the flimsy motel curtains. A dull, unfamiliar warmth spread over his skin. The sheet rode low across his waist, the mattress still holding the faintest indentation of the body that had shared it last night.He sat up slowly.Her scent still lingered faintly on the pillow beside him.His eyes flicked across the room—scant, dated decor, peeling wallpaper, humming air conditioner. But it wasn’t the room that stopped him.It was the other bed.Still made. Untouched. His folded tee-shirt and basketball shorts placed neatly on top. Her tote and purse—gone.A slow, sinking dread filled him.“Monet,” he muttered, even though he knew she wasn’t here.He stumbled to the bathroom. Empty. The air still smelled of last night’s vanilla soap and warm skin, but she was nowhere.Heart pounding now, he grabbed his jeans and shirt, pulling them on as he rushed out to the front desk.The receptionist, a bored man with a fading afro, barely looked up from his worn
FOUR YEARS AGOThe house was usually alive with something, shoes flung near the stairs, Meredith’s crayons staining the table, Hannah humming off-key in the kitchen as she made another disaster. But not tonight.As Richard Abbott stepped into the mudroom and toed off his brogues, silence greeted him like a stranger.Too clean. Too still.The cleaning lady must have come by. But even that didn’t explain the unsettling hush. He loosened his tie, slipping his suit jacket over the hook by the doorway, and moved through the empty hallway, the faint scent of lavender still lingering in the air.“Darling? Meredith?” he called out, voice echoing faintly.He passed the kitchen-spotless. The den-quiet. The garden-empty.His steps quickened.Upstairs, their bedroom door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open gently.There she was.Hannah lay on her back, one arm curled around a softly breathing Meredith, her other hand resting on the swell of her stomach. Her face, even in sleep, was peaceful. And
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO She wished someone had fought to keep her too. The thought curled in her chest like smoke hot and aching. She turned her face away from the window and crossed the hall, footsteps soft over worn floorboards. The nursery was dimly lit, a single lamp casting a pale orange halo against the far wall. She hadn’t planned to stop. Not really—but her steps slowed as she passed the crib where baby Louis slept. It was so quiet inside. The baby had stopped crying a while ago. Now he lay nestled in a pale blue blanket, his mouth slightly open, a soft wheezing breath rising and falling. His lashes were long and dark, fists curled near his chin like he was still holding onto something. Monet stared. That ache deepened. It hadn’t been mere coincidence that she’d been the one to see his mother fighting to leave him behind that cold December morning. She crouched slowly, hesitant—like one wrong move might wake him or, worse, reveal just how badl
Convent Garden – Late Afternoon“I'd pay you twice more than your current salary,” Richard Abbott had said to the woman rocking his son to sleep in the hospital nursery, something no one else had managed since Hannah’s death.Back then, she had been a stranger. Yet he remembered her clearly now the same calm, steady presence holding his children the night Hannah was placed in a medically induced coma. Quiet. Strong. Unshakable.PRESENT DAY Now she sat before him in the convent garden, the sunset staining her face gold. Her eyes were rimmed red, blackened from too much crying, and it twisted something deep in him. Monet had brought light back into the home after Hannah’s death. A slow, gentle light that filled the cracks grief had left behind. And now, watching that light flicker out... it was unbearable.“Airport?” His voice cracked. “What are you going to do at the airport?”He knew. He just didn’t want to.Her lips parted, then closed again. Her breath hitched. “My things are box