Page 15 of Love You Madly

I nod, the words catching in my throat. Everything about this day feels wrong. The bright lights of the reception hall, the muted chatter, the smell of casseroles—it all feels out of place, like it belongs to someone else’s grief, not ours.

Across the room, Dad is talking to someone, his face composed but strained. Beverly is still flitting around like she’strying to fix things, as if organizing a buffet can somehow make this better. And then there’s Debra, sitting alone, staring into the distance. Her grief is like a raw wound, and it’s impossible not to feel it radiating through the room. Even though I don’t agree with her anger over Serena being here, I understand it. She loved Teddy, and now he’s gone. There’s no right way to grieve that kind of loss.

The slideshow shifts again, another photo of Teddy grinning at some long-ago family picnic. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I feel the panic creeping in again, threatening to take over. But I focus on the sounds around me—Malcolm’s quiet muttering, the clink of dishes, the low hum of conversation. It doesn’t take away the pain, but it’s enough to pull me back from the edge.

Vince shifts beside me, his eyes still on the screen. “We’ll scatter his ashes next week,” he says quietly. “At the farm. That’ll be the real goodbye.”

I nod, knowing that’s when it will hit me for real. This… this is just the prelude. The real mourning comes later, when we say our final farewell.

seven

THE HOUSE THAT BUILT ME - MIRANDA LAMBERT

CALLIE - APRIL 14, 2013

When I wake to the distant rumble of the Amtrak train passing outside the window on Sunday, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. That sound used to lull me back to sleep as a child, but now it stirs something deeper—memories of simpler times, when life felt more secure. The early morning light seeps through the curtains, casting a soft, comforting glow across the room. As the train fades into the distance, I hear the familiar sounds of Mom bustling in the kitchen and Sara’s laughter echoing from the living room. It grounds me in the present, even as the weight of everything that’s changed presses down on me.

I get dressed and head to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee greets me. It’s a welcome shift from the West Coast, where I used to have Brooke ship me coffee just to get through the day.

Mom is at the stove, humming softly as she cooks breakfast. It’s strange to see her like this—relaxed, taking her time inthe kitchen. When I was growing up, she was always in a rush, and breakfast was a quick bowl of cereal before I darted out the door to catch the bus. Seeing her now, so at ease, is a stark reminder of how much time has passed.

I’ve always wondered if Mom’s reluctance to cook stems from her own childhood in this house. Her mother—my grandmother—died here in the kitchen when Mom was just thirteen, baking an apple pie on Christmas morning. I suppose that’s why cooking felt more like a burden to her than anything else when I was younger. She was thrust into the role of preparing meals for herself, Grandpa, and whichever of her twelve siblings still lived at home after Grandma passed.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Mom says with a warm smile, flipping pancakes at the stove. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I have in a while,” I reply, pouring myself a cup of coffee. I lean against the counter, savoring the moment. “Sara seems happy to be here.”

“She loves it. And she loves having her Grammy doting on her,” Mom says with a chuckle. “We’re glad to have you both here.”

I nod, a wave of gratitude swelling inside me. “Thanks, Mom. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mom waves her hand dismissively, her eyes soft. “You’d dojust fine, Callie. You’re stronger than you think.”

It’s been a week since I moved back in with Mom, and I’m praying I can find an apartment before the end of April, so I don’t overstay my welcome. I know she means it when she says I’m always welcome here, but I can only take so much before her well-meaning comments about how I don’t really need to eat for two start gnawing at me. But finding a place means finding a job first, and I know that’s the next hurdle.

For now, though, I take a sip of my coffee, letting the warmth of the moment settle inside me. I’ll figure out the rest—just not today.

Later that morning, just as I’m getting lost in Virgin River by Robyn Carr, a knock on the door interrupts my escape. I shuffle to open it and find Brooke standing there with a tray of her famous cinnamon rolls, looking like she just stepped out of a Pinterest board.

“Good morning! I thought I’d bring some treats from the shop,” Brooke chirps, her grin wide enough to rival the Cheshire Cat’s as she breezes past me into the house.

“You’re a lifesaver! Just don’t tell my mom I’m having a second breakfast. She doesn’t believe in the whole ‘eating for two’ thing,” I say, grabbing the tray and inhaling the sweet, cinnamon goodness like it’s the answer to all my problems. “Come in, let’s catch up.”

We settle at the kitchen table, the smell of coffee mixing with the scent of cinnamon rolls, making the kitchen feel cozier than it has in years. Sara’s playing nearby, occasionally running over to show us a toy, her enthusiasm infectious as always.

Brooke takes a sip of her coffee, eyeing me over the rim of her mug. “So, how are you holding up?” she asks, her voice cutting through the small talk.

“It’s been tough,” I admit, tearing off a piece of cinnamon roll and savoring the sticky sweetness. “But being here helps. With family and all. I’m just glad I’m not still in Seattle.”

Brooke nods, sympathy softening her features. “I’m glad to hear that. But listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. The coffee shop’s been crazy busy, and I could really use some help. I thought… maybe this could be good timing for you too?”

I nearly choke on my coffee. A job. An actual job. My way out of my childhood bedroom and a chance at real independence. The idea is thrilling and terrifying all at once. On onehand, I desperately need the money and something to do other than stare at my mom’s Americana decor, wondering if it was always this ugly. But on the other hand, I haven’t worked in ages, and the thought of messing up someone's triple-shot, half-caf, no-foam, extra-hot latte with oat milk makes my stomach turn.

“I’d love to, but are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to disappoint you or, you know, cause a caffeine riot. You’ve seen me operate a blender, right?”

Brooke waves me off. “Callie, you’re more than capable. And honestly, it’ll be good for you to have something else to focus on besides... everything. Plus, we can laugh about it when you inevitably mess up and someone storms out in a huff. I’ll even throw in extra cinnamon rolls as peace offerings.”

Before I can respond, Mom enters the kitchen, her eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of the cinnamon rolls before landing on us.

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