Chapter Five

      Monet Palmer had never missed Sunday Mass in her entire life—even after moving in with the Abbotts, she went with the children in towx. On rare Sundays, Richard would join them, quietly, solemnly, always sitting at the far end of the pew like someone visiting a museum, not a sanctuary.

      It had been ten years since she walked away from postulancy to pursue a life she wasn’t sure belo.gnged to her. Twenty-nine since she was abandoned—wrapped in a crocheted blanket and a note that only said "God knows her name"—on the stoop of Sisters of Saint Josephine Convent.

      Now, standing on that same stone stoop, the years folded in on themselves like parchment. She stared at the tall oak doors that had once been her entire world.

     A thousand memories fought for space in her chest—her first prayer, the sound of Sister Miriam's laughter echoing through the halls, the warmth of Mother Margaret's shawl wrapped around her shoulders during winter Mass. But beneath those memories churned something heavier: shame and uncertainty.

  Was she returning home? Or just trespassing?

  Her fingers moved on instinct—three short knocks against the door, each one loud in the silence, each one mirroring the hard thud of her heartbeat. Almost automatically, her eyes flicked downward. She smoothed a crease in her blue tweed dress, adjusting the neckline.

  That’s when the diamond caught her eye. Four carats. Princess cut. Cold, brilliant, and undeniably heavy.

  One step closer.

  "Sister Andromeda."

  The name hit like a ghost. No one had called her that in a decade.

  Monet looked up into the leathery, smiling face of Mother Margaret, who stood just inside the doorway as though she’d known Monet would come.  In her gray and black habit she was older than Monet remembered but her eyes—those soft hazel eyes—still held the same warmth that had once rocked a child to sleep.

  "I’ve been waiting for you," the older woman said.

  A laugh—half relief, half nerves—bubbled from Monet’s throat. A real, honest-to-God grin overtook her face, matching Mother Margaret’s in depth and light.

  When she stepped inside, the scent hit her first: mildewy books, beeswax polish, rose oil from the altar cloths. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.

  This was home.

  ---

  “Where’s Monet, Daddy?”

  Richard looked up from his desktop into the big, serious eyes of Meredith. It was the third time in the last two hours she’d asked.

  “She told you, remember?” he replied gently. “She was going to visit the place where she was raised.”

  He stood from his chair with a creak in his joints that made Meredith wrinkle her nose. Richard chuckled despite himself.

  “Is she coming home tonight?” she asked again, softer now.

  Monet had taken the day off to drive to Boston, and though she’d explained her plans to the kids both last night and that morning, it hadn’t sunk in. Not fully.

  “Yes, sweetheart. But it’ll be really late,” he reassured her. “She waited to see you both off before she hit the road.”

  Meredith’s brow pinched. “It isn’t safe for a woman to drive alone at night. We should’ve gone with her.”

  Richard would have laughed, but the solemnity in her voice quieted any amusement. She was eight-going-on-sixty with her wisdoms.

  He knelt to her height, resting gentle hands on her small shoulders. “She’ll be fine.”

  But he wasn’t so sure. The worry had lingered all day, clawing at the edge of his thoughts. She'd assured him she'd be back that same day and he'd nodded in that stoic face he swore like an armor when emotions threatened to leak.

  “Want some snack and soda?” he offered, eager to shift the mood. But mostly to distract himself from thoughts of Monet.

      She shook her head, her auburn wavy hair bouncing. “Monet prepped snacks and left them in the fridge.”

   Of course she had. She’d also left lunch and dinner, for all three of them, leaving nothing to chance. Her quiet efficiency always struck him—not just the competence, but the care behind it.

      It shouldn't shame him, but it did. He paid her well. She juggled part-time shifts at the hospital and volunteered at schools, yet somehow made time to mother his children like they were her own.

  She was irreplaceable. And yet… she was leaving, with her replacements lined for him to interview when he could get to it. In her own efficient manner she'd brought in resumes from the hospital and school just like her's.

  “I’ll really miss her when she leaves, Daddy.”

       Richard sighed deeply, not shocked that Meredith had read his thoughts. Two pairs of miserable eyes locked.

     Father and daughter hugged tightly, bound in the same unspoken grief.

  ______

     Back in Boston, Sister Margaret waited until they were alone in the small utilitarian parlor with it's wicker furniture and little portraits of saints.

    Monet had greeted the new sisters warmly, but it was the older ones who made her eyes sting. These were the women who prayed with her when she felt lost, cheered when she scored in schoolyard games, tucked her in when her nightmares returned, held her when she couldn't communicate her feelings.

  She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed them.

  Every scripture, every hymn, every liturgy, every tear-stained journal entry came rushing back as she sat in the quiet parlor, her teacup trembling in her hands.

  “You’re holding your teacup like it’s a shield, Monet. Are we celebrating today… or comforting?”

  A watery smile tugged at Monet’s lips. “Both, I think.”

  “You’re marrying this man… Dr. Benson?”

  “Yes. He’s good. Kind. Respected. It makes sense.”

  “Does it feel right?”

  “I thought wanting a family meant I had to take what came. That I couldn’t be… choosy.”

  “Wanting to be a mother doesn’t mean abandoning your peace,” the elder nun said gently. “Your heart still belongs to God, child. Ask Him—truly—if He’s leading you to this man, or if you’re just filling silence with noise.”

  A deep, shaky breath escaped Monet’s lips. “It just… feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

  Hazel eyes studied her. “With the Abbott family?”

  “Yes.” It came out tiny. A whisper. But it was the truest thing she’d said all day.

  “But I can’t continue with the house-playing,” Monet said suddenly, setting her cup down. “I love the kids. Leaving would destroy them. But they aren’t mine. And that’s what I want—my own.”

  “You want children of your own?”

  “Children I wouldn’t abandon on cold winter nights while the world sleeps.”

  The tear came suddenly, a single trail she didn’t bother to wipe.

  Warm hands reached out, pulling her into the folds of Mother Margaret’s familiar habit. Then, she broke. Sobs wracked her body, her head buried in the safe crook of the nun’s shoulder.

  “Let it all out, my child.”

     Monet cried for the mother who abandoned her, for the life she abandoned at postulancy, for Hannah Abbott who'd left three broken hearts, for the children she loved like her own, for the love she wasn’t sure she felt for Kyle, and the ache she definitely felt for Richard.

    She cried until her breath hitched and her throat burned. Till she was a whimpering mess, Mother Margaret cooed and patted her all through.

    “You have and always will be my child, Monet Andromeda Palmer,” came the whispered comfort. “Birth mother or not. Don’t ever forget that.”

     “And in all the ways that mattered you've been a mother to those kids,” Monet shuddered at the words. “And you're not abandoning them the same way you were abandoned.”

     And somehow, in that sacred space, something inside her shifted. The ache didn’t disappear, but it lost its power to rule her. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t just holding on.

  She was letting go.

______

       The convent was quiet behind her. The evening sky was a burst of colors cloaking the convent grounds in angelic glow, and Monet tightened her coat around her as she stepped onto the gravel path. Her eyes were still puffy from crying, but her spirit—though tender—felt lighter. Like she’d set something down at the altar, something she didn’t realize had been burdening her all these years.

       She sat in the driver’s seat of her car, the silence stretching long before she even turned the key. Her phone buzzed in the cup holder. A message from Richard.

      “Let us know when you’re close. Meredith won’t sleep.”

      A soft smile touched her lips. She misses me, Monet thought, placing a hand over her chest. The ache that came with the realization wasn’t painful—it was warm. Alive.

     She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she stared at the message for a moment, letting it sit with her. Meredith wouldn’t sleep. Carter would pretend he didn’t care, then sneak downstairs the moment the garage door opened. And Richard—he’d pretend he hadn’t been waiting up at all.

      Her fingers hovered above the screen, then typed:

“I’ll be home soon. Tell her to keep the teddy beside her.”

      PShe put the car in reverse and pulled out slowly, headlights cutting through the early darkness of the rural road. Trees blurred past, and the radio played low—one of those gospel songs she grew up hearing during chores at the convent, now twisted into something sweet and modern. The kind of song that made you think about your life in snapshots.

      She thought of Meredith’s arms around her waist. Of Carter’s messy fingers in her hair. Of Richard’s unreadable eyes and that faint tremor in his voice the day she said she couldn’t work part-time.

     She thought of Kyle too, his unwavering support and love, the gentle pressure of his lips over hers, the not-so-gentle demand for commitment.

      But it was the Abbott house she was returning to. Not his apartment. Not some new city. Home.

      Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror—past the darkened road behind her, past the fading lights of the convent steeple, and then forward again. A slow breath filled her lungs.

     She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, she was going home.