He gently adjusted the blanket around her.
“It isn’t.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Lily opened her eyes.
Dad smiled.
“You’ve got good timing, kid.”
We did not magically become a perfect family.
That would be a lie.
There were awkward holidays.
Missed calls.
Boundaries tested.
Old habits resurfaced.
Mom once asked whether I could lend Tessa money for a car deposit.
I said no.
She said okay.
That was progress.
Dad once complained that Clare was “still holding a grudge.”
I told him healing did not operate on his schedule.
He grumbled.
Then apologized the next day.
That was progress too.
And Tessa?
For almost nine months, we did not speak.
Then one Tuesday afternoon, I walked into the third restaurant and found her sitting at the bar.
I stopped.
She looked different.
Not dramatically.
No cinematic transformation.
Same blond hair.
Same sharp eyes.
But thinner.
Tired.
She wore navy scrubs beneath a gray jacket.
