Page 64 of When We Are Falling

“It was.” I pause, slightly hesitant to share the dream I’ve been harboring for so long. It feels big to share it with him. Big, but right.

“But it’s given me a goal. I want to organize proper emergency accommodation here in Harbor’s Edge for kids who need it. A safe place where they can stay until a suitable foster home is found. I’ve already spoken to the mayor about it. She’s on board, but it’s just a matter of finding the money.”

Ethan gives me this look, like I’m someone good, someone he admires, and it makes me feel almost whole, like I’m healing in ways I didn’t know I needed.

“That’s an incredible dream, princess. You’d make a huge difference in so many kids’ lives.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I’m overwhelmed by his support. “I just... I don’t want any other kids to feel as scared and alone as I did.”

“You’re amazing, you know that?” His voice is gentle as he asks, “Do you ever have contact with your biological family?”

I pause, a mixture of emotions welling up. “No, not anymore. My birth family had a lot of struggles with addiction. My mom left when I was just a baby, and my dad… he tried, but he couldn’t stay clean.”

The memories come flooding back: the house, how it was always so dirty, how there was never enough to eat, thecupboards bare. The strangers who’d come over in the middle of the night. How my dad would disappear sometimes.

He was like two different people: my dad, who tucked me in at night and made up amazing bedtime stories, and the man with the glassy stare, the agitated, desperate one. The one who sold everything we owned for his next hit.

“Do you know where your dad is now?”

“He’s dead. An overdose.” The finality of the words makes Ethan flinch, and he tightens his grip on my hand.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. But please don’t just think of him as an addict. When he had moments of sobriety, he would really try to connect with me, and he was doing his best to get clean. There was this bedtime story he used to tell me about a brave little girl who could do anything she set her mind to. Even now, I think about him and miss him.”

Ethan’s eyes never leave mine, his expression tender and unwavering. “It sounds like he loved you a lot.”

There’s a lump in my throat. “He did, in his own way.”

“You’ve lost so many people.”

A bitter laugh. “Yep, and I’ve learned that whenever I become a burden, the people in my life disappear. It’s safer for everyone if I stand on my own two feet.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, but Ethan doesn’t look shocked. He just reaches for my hand, his touch grounding me. “Look, I know you’re used to carrying everything by yourself, but even the strongest people need a break. You deserve to lean on someone who’s willing to stand by you, not walk away.”

We lie there in silence for a while, the weight of the past and the promise of the future hanging in the air between us. Despite everything, I feel a glimmer of hope.

Ethan squeezes my hand, his grip warm and reassuring, and I look up at the night sky, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds across a dark, inky canvas. The cool night air brushes against my skin, and for a moment, everything feels still and serene, despite my worries.

Life has thrown so much at me—pain, loss, and uncertainty—but in this moment, under the massive expanse of the universe, there’s a strange sense of peace.

It’s as if the stars themselves are whispering that everything will be okay, that there’s a bigger plan at work as long as I don’t try to fight it.

Chapter 28

Blake

I’m in the kitchen,stirring a pot of risotto, following a cookbook recipe for what might be the second time in my life. The aroma of garlic and white wine fills the air, and even though it’s a basic meal, it’s hard not to feel a little proud of myself.

Mom’s kitchen is a warm, inviting space that feels like the heart of our home. The walls are painted a soft yellow, and the cabinets are a creamy white, with wooden bench tops, giving the room a bright, cheerful farmhouse vibe, a place where many family meals were shared and memories made, before Mama Charlotte made a decision that cast a pall over everything the three of us had together.

Pots and pans hang from a wrought iron rack above the island, and a collection of cookbooks lines a shelf next to the window. The countertops are cluttered with jars of spices, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a well-used coffee machine.

I’m barefoot and the terracotta tiles are cool. Ethan’s on his way over and my mom is setting the kitchen table, hummingsoftly to herself, wearing a pretty gray linen dress, her hair swept back into a bun. The home phone rings, and I wipe my hands on a towel before picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s me.” It’s Mama Charlotte and my heart skips a beat. I haven’t heard from her in more than a week, and last time we spoke she was talking about looking for a bigger place so I could come and visit. Which means coming home is not high on her list of priorities.

---