Mum, you chose him.
Another list? His voice landed with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.
Helen froze for a second, then took a steadying breath.
Simon, Holly’s sixteen. She needs a new winter coat. Hers doesn’t fit anymore.
Shes got a coat.
Thats last years. The sleeves barely reach her wrists, shes shot up.
Simon let himself sink back into the sofa, fixing Helen with the sort of forensic stare you’d reserve for someone who had eaten the last biscuit.
Look, we live in my flat. I pay the bills. I buy the food. You earn a keeper’s wage, Im a manager. Thats our household pot, remember? Joint. But every time, you hand me a list of her needs like Im contractually obliged to support someone elses child.
She lives with us, Helen said quietly. Eats with us. Sleeps here.
Exactly. Sleeps in MY flat. Eats MY food.
Helen felt something twist inside her. This conversation was on its umpteenth rerun, playing with grim loyalty since she and Holly moved in after the wedding. At first, she’d fought back. Then came the silence. Yet each time Holly needed something, she found herself trudging through this same grim bog.
Fine, she said, folding her list into her dressing gown. Ill sort it myself.
With what? Simons tone was almost conversational. Your salary goes into the household pot. Or have you started stashing cash behind my back?
No, I… Ill ask Dave.
Simons smirk was instant.
Ah, the ex. Brilliant. Go ahead. Tell him how much of an ogre I am. Let him foot the bill for his precious daughter.
Helen said nothing. Dave actually did helpwhen he remembered. Child maintenance always a week late, money for emergencies came with a side order of long-winded justifications. She didn’t want to beg. She didnt want to be that parent with a hand out and a whinge.
Look, the household pot should cover Holly too, she tried once more. Were a family.
Family? Simon stood, wandered to the kitchen, fetched a beer. Family is me and you. Hollys your child from your first go-around. Ive nothing against her living here, but let her dad chip in.
Helen lingered in the doorway, watching Simons broad back. Three years ago, meeting him, shed felt like someone finally had her. Solid, sorted, said all the right things. Swore up and down he was tired of loneliness and ready for a proper family. After her divorce from Dave shed been on her own so longhauling along work, laundry, Holly. Then Simon swept in, all dinners out and flowers, speaking as if a child in the house was just more reason to be happy.
Everything changed after the wedding. More specifically, after she moved into his flat.
Im just popping out for a fag, Helen said, escaping to the balcony.
Shed started smoking six months agofirst in secret, now quite openly. Simon grimaced, but never actually said anything. It was the one area where she did as she pleased.
The balcony smelt like autumn and weathered concrete. She lit up, exhaled. Down in the carpark, lamps flickered, a dog barked. Standard fare for an estate in South London. She had a job, a roof, a husband who didnt drink himself to a stupor or raise a fist. By some standards, she was doing well. Why, then, did she wind up on this balcony every evening, feeling like a cornered fox?
The door cracked open. Holly.
Mum, I didnt mean for this to kick off. Again.
There was no row, Helen stubbed out her cigarette. Its fine, love.
I heard it. Look, dont say anything to him about the coat. Ill ask him myself.
No need. Ive got it covered.
Holly was quiet a moment. Then, so softly Helen nearly missed it:
I feel awkward living here. Like… Like I shouldnt.
Helen draped an arm around her daughters shoulders. Holly was nearly as tall already, skinny, dark ponytail bobbing.
Dont talk rubbish. This is our home.
Its his home, Holly gently corrected. He reminds me every day. Not in words. Just the way he looks. Says things.
Helen searched for a reply. There was none, because Holly was right.
***
Come winter, Helen did get the coat for Holly. She asked Dave. He coughed up, with the caveat that next month she shouldnt expect maintenance ahead of time, barring disasters. Simon, clocking the new purchase, pursed his lips.
So the ex has money, then? Funny how theres always a shortfall for us, but for her theres always enough.
Simon, its for Holly.
So for her, hes flush, but Im meant to bankroll the groceries. Splendid.
The chat climaxed in him blasting the telly loud enough to drown out London traffic, completely ignoring her the rest of the night. Helen knew this was his special strain of punishmentmute, conspicuous, freezing her out until, after a day or so, hed thaw, talk as if nothing had happened, and shed collapse into relief for a breather.
Winter passed like this. Holly entered her final year of school, prepping for exams, barely leaving her room. When Helen slipped in, Holly would be buried in textbooks, pale, moons under her eyes.
Are you eating alright? Helen would ask.
Im fine.
Maybe you need vitamins. I could get
Dont. Simonll kick off about you spending money on me.
Helen sighed. Simon had become Si in Hollys mouth recently, every syllable trailing a sort of bone-dry irony.
Come spring, school floated an offer: a three-day trip to London for the leavers. Museums, a play at the West End, and the price tagfour hundred quidsparked Hollys eyes.
Mum, can I go? All the others are off.
Helen couldnt say no. For two years, Holly had become a shadow, barely talking to classmates, scuttling straight home. Maybe this trip would offer a breath of oxygen.
Of course, Helen said. Youre going.
That evening, fortified on courage and possibly Chardonnay, Helen broached the subject.
Simon, schools doing a trip. London. The leavers group.
He didnt even look up from his phone. And?
We need four hundred pounds.
Simon finally locked eyes, fixing her with his cross-examination gaze.
Four hundred? For a trip?
Three days, food, somewhere to stay. Its all cultural stuff.
Helen, you do realise its May? We need to pay for the building rates in summer, plus you wanted a holiday. And theres the council tax coming.
Im not asking for a holiday. Holly can go, well hang about here and rest.
So youll pass on the holiday, but she gets a city break?
Helen nodded.
Simon smirked, shook his head.
You surprise me. We cant afford anything decent because your daughter needs a coach trip. Does she understand what this costs?
She does.
I doubt it. At her age, money just appears by magic.
Shes not like that, Helen said quietly. Hollys very thoughtful.
Thoughtful, eh? So thoughtful shes not thanked me once for paying the electricity she uses.
Helen felt rage stirring, a sticky, paralysing kind.
She wanted to scream, to tell Simon that Holly lived in a coil of tension, scared to fetch a glass of water lest she attract a barb, deliberately eating less at dinner in case she heard yet another dig about the family pot. She wanted to tell him hed built a home where a child lived in dread of being a burden. But she said nothing. Any word now would bounce back and flatten her.
Ill ask Dave, she said evenly.
Go on, then, Simon shrugged, scrolling back to the worlds least interesting Twitter feed.
Helen retreated to the balcony, lighter trembling in her hand. She watched the city lights and wondered how shed arrived at a place where asking for money for her own child required rehearsal. The salary she earned, as ever, dissolved monthly into the household pot, only to have her justify every withdrawal.
Once, when Helen met Simon, hed promised equality. Both working, both chipping in. After marriage, he proposed the joint account. Were a family nowwhy split? At the time, it sounded fair. But quickly, she learned: joint in Simons world meant he steered, she explained. Every purchase needed approval. Every receipt scanned. Try to spend outside his scriptprepare for lectures about how hes carrying the whole lot.
Holly emerged on to the balcony.
Mum, please dont. I dont want to go if its trouble.
Youre going, Helen said simply. Absolutely.
***
Helen managed the trip. She borrowed from a colleague, Linda. Linda looked at her as if Helen had suddenly grown a third ear.
Helen, are you alright? You never ask for loans.
Im fine. Its just tight, right now.
Linda glanced sideways. Not to pry, but didnt your Simon get a pay bump? You mentioned it. Whats happened?
Helen shrugged.
Nothing, really. Just circumstances.
She wasnt about to confess. She didnt want anyones pitylet alone leave him! advice. Divorce twice over felt like failure. Where would she go with Holly? Rent a one-bed flat on a clerks wage? Go back to the dingy bedsit theyd shared before Simon?
No. Shed weather it. Holly would finish school, go to college, become independent. Maybe, then, the marriage would improve. Maybe, with no teenager around to sulk at the baked beans, Simon would mellow.
Holly left for London in June. Returned three days later bubbling, gushing about the National Gallery, West End shows, walking along South Bank eating chips. Helen was happy Holly got even these fleeting moments of lightness.
Simon nodded non-committally through Hollys stories; as soon as she left the room, he muttered:
Hope she remembers trips like that cost real money.
Helen swallowed her reply.
They didnt go anywhere themselves that summer. Simon went fishing with the boys; Helen took leave and stayed home, sometimes taking Holly to the park for ice cream. Those little respites, with just mother and daughter and the illusion of ease, were all she lived for.
By autumn, Holly entered her final school year, gearing up for exams. She wanted teacher trainingan early-years pathway. Helen supported her, even if it wouldnt make anyone rich. Holly adored kids, was already the self-appointed child-wrangler in the block.
One evening, Simon announced: Ive been thinking. Maybe its time Holly started earning her keep.
Helen looked up from her pasta.
Shes in her last year. Exams.
So? People work and study. Shes seventeen. Could get a Saturday job, put a bit into the household fund.
Shes got exams in spring. She needs to study.
I get that, he nodded, but having an extra adult about just freeloading doesnt exactly seem right.
Helen looked at him for a long time. Something inside her finally gave. She wasnt angry anymore. She was simply empty.
Shes not an adult. Shes seventeen. And shes here because shes my daughter.
Your daughter, Simon agreed. Not mine. So why am I funding her?
Holly reappeared, pale but resolute. Shed heard it all.
I can get a job, she said softly. Its fine.
No, Helen snapped. Not happening. Youre going to study.
Mum, I dont want to be a problem.
Youre not a problem. Helen rose from the table. Come on, lets go.
On the balcony, Holly hugged herself against the chill.
I could work, Mum. Loads of girls dowaitressing, handing out flyers.
You need to focus on studying.
I can juggle both.
Helen exhaled. Listen, I know its hard here. I see it. But school comes first. Youll get a trade. That matters more than anything.
And then what? Ill still be in the way.
Dont say that.
But its true. He doesnt want me here. And I hate living somewhere Im not wanted.
Helen didnt argue this time. Her daughter was, again, right.
***
Winter cranked the tension up another notchthis time, over food.
Helen made her usual: chicken, roast potatoes, a salad. They sat at the tableHelen, Holly, Simon.
Holly took a modest portion, Helen a little less. Simon loaded his plate and ate. A few minutes in, he surveyed Holly critically.
You not hungry?
Im alright, Holly mumbled.
Just not keen on what Mum cooks?
I like it. Just not starving.
Seems odd. At your age, I had a whales appetite.
Helen felt a cold prickle. She knew his direction of travel.
She had lunch at school, Helen interjected. I paid for it from whats left after bills.
Little extras, Simon muttered. I never seem to have any little extras. All mine goes on mortgage, food, bills.
Holly stood. Ill go.
Do the dishes, Simon called after her.
Helen turned to Simon, barely above a whisper.
Why are you like this?
Why am I like what?
In front of her.
Simon shoved his plate aside, leaned back.
Helen, Im tired. Tired of carrying this lot and still getting stick. In my own house, I feel guilty for telling the truth.
What truth?
That you put your daughter before us. Every chat ends up about her. We cant do a thing for ourselves because its always about her needs.
Thats not true.
It is. You just dont want to see it.
Helen stood, collecting plates with trembling hands, went to the kitchen. Holly, already scrubbing, didnt look up.
Holly, she called softly.
No reply. Just another plate scrubbed clean and parked on the drying rack.
Helen reached out, hugging her daughter from behind. Holly stiffened, then slipped free.
Mum, dont.
Helens apology barely made it out.
Dont make excuses for him, Holly spun around, eyes red. Hes not tired. He doesn’t want me here, and you know it. You know, but you dont do anything.
I cant, Helen felt her own eyes burning. I cant just leave. Wed have nowhere. Id only manage renting a room, and thats all.
A room would be better than this, Holly wiped her face. Anythings better than feeling like rubbish every day.
She left, slamming the door. Helen remained, staring out at a city swaddled in gently falling snow. Out there, somewhere, were families where children werent unwelcome. Where mothers weren’t terrified to buy a daughter paracetamol without being hauled into court for it.
But that wasnt her world. Her world was this flat, these endless money rows, this gnawing ache before every conversation about spending.
When at last she crept onto the balcony that night, long after Simon snored, it was just her, a cigarette, and the realisation that Holly was cleverer than her. Seventeen, and she saw the exits, while Helenforty, grown, still only made excuses.
Motherhood, Helen thought. What is it actually supposed to mean? Protecting your child. And who protects you when youre trapped with someone wholl never accept her? How do you repair a bond while betraying it, bit by bit, every day?
***
Exam season, 2017: Holly lived at her desk. Helen delivered tea and sandwiches and encouragements to a closed door. That term, Simon was unexpectedly calmno snark, no lectures on spending. Helen dared to hope. Maybe things would right themselves, maybe Simon was just weathering a midlife blip and coming out the other side.
Holly did well. Got a spot on a teacher training course, full bursary. Helen was glowing, crushed her daughter in a hug.
Im really proud of you, she said.
Thanks, Mum.
Even Simon congratulated her and slipped Holly a tenner. Helen felt a flutter of hopelook, things arent that grim. See? He can be decent.
But by summer, the peace dissolved.
Holly secured a place in student halls. Said it made sense, so shed save the commute. Helen knew the truthit was pure escape. Her child couldnt wait to leave a place where her existence was a daily aggravation.
When Holly announced she was moving out, Simon nodded.
Sensible choice. Builds independence.
Helen swallowed her heart. Her daughter was leaving at eighteennot for adventure, but to breathe.
Dont worry, Mum, Holly hugged her at the door. Ill come home for weekends.
Of course you will, Helen tried to smile.
August came and they packed Hollys things into Helens old suitcaseclothes, books, odds and ends.
Take a warm blanket, Helen fussed. Student beddings usually rubbish.
Mum, honestly, its all sorted.
Just in case.
Simon, of course, was busy at work on moving day. Helen called a cab, lugged bags, and left Holly at a crumbling block that reeked of the seventies. The tiny room slept fourher new flatmates not yet arrived.
Itll do, Holly said, standing tall.
Helen helped her unpack, made the bed. They sat in silence before Holly finally took Helens hand.
Thank you. For everything.
What are you thanking me for? Helens voice faltered. I couldnt even give you a proper family.
You gave me everything you could. Its not your fault.
It is. I picked him. Brought him in.
You just wanted things to be better. I get it.
They hugged. Helen felt her daughters heart fluttering and fought back her own tears. When it was time to go, Helen lingered in the doorway, saying shed call every day.
This is still your home, she promised.
Holly nodded. But they both knew it was a fiction. It never really had been.
***
The first weeks without Holly passed in a daze. Helen cycled through work, tea, small talk, making cottage pie. Evenings were spent with Simon watching TV. He was almost affectionate. Told her they finally had a chance to focus on themselvesmore time, more money, more freedom.
Helen nodded. But inside was a void.
She called Holly in the evenings, checked she was eating, how halls were, if anything was needed. Holly answered shortly, kindly, but never with warmth. She told stories about uni, her flatmates, lecturers, never asking about Simon or home. The walls between them grew, sturdy and polite.
Weekends, Helen held her breath hoping Holly might pop back. First week, Holly pleaded essay deadlines. Next, she was out with friends. Another, just too tired.
Helen could read the signs. Holly wanted no reminders of the old flat. No reminders of Simon. Helen could hardly blame her.
One late September evening Simon said: What do you think about turning Hollys room into an office? Shes never here.
Helen looked at him.
Its still her room.
In name, maybe. She doesnt visit. Why leave it empty? I could finally set up a workspace.
No.
Why?
Because its hers. Shell be back in the holidays.
And when she visits, she can sleep on the sofa. Sorted.
Helen left, fleeing to the balcony once again. When Simon followed, she cut him off.
Leave her room alone.
He rolled his eyes and vanished.
***
October brought endless drizzle. Helen made it to work, came home, made tea. She and Simon hardly spoke outside grunts and weather updates. He was busyas always, occasionally off on business trips; she stopped asking where.
Holly called less frequently. Once a week, maybe. She never asked about home.
Helen saw her losing grip on her daughter. She consoled herselfchildren are supposed to get on with their separate lives. It still ached.
One Thursday, Helen went into Hollys unused room. Dustless, bed made, photos blu-tacked to the wardrobe. She sat on the bed, ran her hand over the old duvet. Opened a drawerpens, old lipstick, a butterfly hairclip from primary school. She turned it in her hands, cold metal biting her palm.
Simon found her there.
Feeling nostalgic?
Just tidying.
Well, on that note, can we please talk about setting my desk in here?
Ive said no.
Simon huffed. Shes not a child anymore, Helen. Life moves on. You should too.
Helen put the clip back. You can work in the kitchen. Or living room.
I want my own space. Its my flat, by the way.
She stared at his faceexhausted, irritable, some deep, unreadable anger.
You never let us forget its your flat.
Its a fact. Im not throwing you out. I dont charge you rent. I just want my life to work.
Helen walked out, pouring herself a glass of water in the kitchen, hands trembling. She couldnt stand it anymorebeing reminded daily that her child had never been wanted.
After Simon was in bed, she stood on the balcony, freezing in her dressing gown, thinkingcould she make ends meet in a place of her own? A tiny, cold one-bed, but her own? Where Holly could visit and just breathe?
But fear froze her. Fear of being alone, of people gossiping at work (Didnt she already split up once?), fear she wouldnt manage. The most gutting fear: what if, without the constant ache of Simon, she actually felt relief? What if letting family go meant feeling free?
***
In November, Holly visitedunannounced. Phoned on Saturday morning, said shed be over in an hour. Helen cheered up instantly, dove into cleaning, planned a decent meal. Simon, glued to the football, didnt flinch.
Hollys coming, Helen told him.
Mm.
Holly arrived, rosy and a little plumper, looking miles better than when shed left. They caught up over tea. Holly chirped about her training course, the coming work placements. Helen lapped it up, loving the normality of it, finally talking mother-to-daughter again.
Simon appeared, nodded at Holly. All alright?
Fine.
Uni going okay?
Yep.
He made coffee and retreated to the telly. Holly watched him go.
Mum, mind if I sleep here tonight?
Of course not, love! Your rooms just as you left it. Im so glad youre here.
At dinner, the old tension returned. Simon was silent, doomscrolling, Holly quiet. Helen tried to keep the conversation bouncing, but the heaviness just thickened.
Afterwards, Holly retreated to her room. Helen followed.
You alright? You seem sad.
Im fine, Mum. Just tired.
Get some rest, love. Im so glad youre home.
Holly nodded. Helen left, closing the door quietly.
Later, Helen found herself in the living room with Simon. He switched channels.
How longs she here for? he asked without looking.
Im not sure. Til tomorrow, probably.
Good.
Helen felt that familiar, choking frustration.
Shes your stepdaughter.
Only legally.
How can you say that?
Easy. Im honest. Shes not my blood. I dont mistreat her, I dont chuck her out. But loving her? Thats not my job.
Im not asking for love, Helen said, Just a bit of respect.
I respect her enough not to say whats on my mind.
Helen stood, left for the balcony and her night-time seat. Lit a cigarette, let tears slide down unchecked. Shed thought she had control, that she could compromise her way through. But with Hollys lightning-quick visit making it clear even this brief return was painful, Helen faced the truth: shed failedas a wife, as a mother.
The balcony door clicked.
Mum, Ill leave tomorrow, alright?
Why? Stay. You just got here.
I just… cant, Mum. You feel it too, dont you?
Holly, Im so sorry. Sorry for bringing him into our lives, for not leaving sooner. For making you leave.
Holly dropped down beside her, hugging tight.
It’s not your fault. You tried for a familya real one. Thats what matters.
But you suffered. You still suffer.
Mum, Im grown. I live away now. Its fine.
But you never visit. You stay away because of him.
Long silence.
Yeah, Mum. Because of him. But you know its your choice, though, right? Every day, you choose him.
I cant just leave.
You can. Youre just scared.
Helen covered her face. Holly held on.
Mum, I dont want to upset you. But if you stick with him, we’ll keep drifting farther. I cant come here. I can’t really talk to you, knowing you choose himyou get that, dont you?
What do I do?
I cant answer that. But think about what you want, Mumpeace or happiness. Theyre not the same.
***
Holly left the next morning. Helen held on longer at the door than she meant to.
Call when you get back, yeah?
I will.
Come back soon.
Holly nodded, but her eyes said otherwise.
Helen sat in Hollys room, opened the drawer, clutched the butterfly clip.
Hollys words echoed in her head: Peace or happiness. Theyre not the same.
After Dave, Helen had chased peacea roof over their heads, a man who didnt drink or lash out. Happiness felt like a luxury for the young. Past forty, it was about survival. Better to stay put than risk being alone, surely?
Except, at what cost?
Shed given three years to this marriageto Simon. Three years out of Hollys life. Years where her daughter deserved safety and belonging. Instead, shed endured skittish unease, always reminded she was not quite wanted.
Helen had seen it happening. Had done nothing. Paralysed by money worries, shame, the horror of another failed marriage.
Simon came in.
Shes gone?
Yep.
Right, lets get started on that office, then.
Helen looked at hima man in joggers and socks, not angry, not pleased, just absent. For him, Holly was a nuisance finally tidied away.
No, said Helen.
No what?
No office.
Weve already talked about this.
We have. And Im saying no.
Simon pressed his lips together.
What exactlys going on, Helen? Why are you being difficult?
Im tired, Simon. Tired of having to ask for every little thing for my daughter. Tired of your comments. Tired of feeling like a squatter in whats supposed to be my home.
You always exaggerate.
Do I? You remind us this is your flat every day. Any talk of Hollys needs becomes my burden.
Youre just being unreasonable. You agreed to this arrangementshared funds, shared responsibilities.
It wasnt meant to be so dependent on you. I work too. I pay my way.
And how much do you bring in? A third of what I do. Thats the difference.
So my voice doesnt matter?
Simon looked bored.
Im tired of this, Helen. I gave you stability. You agree, then moan. Go on, try living in a bedsit on your wage.
He seemed so sure she wouldn’t risk it.
Maybe he was rightshed grown used to this, the warmth, someone there, even if that someone was poison.
I might not go. But I will think about it.
She went to the kitchen, put the butterfly clip in front of her. Holly had flown away. Not because she was growing up. Because her mother couldnt make her feel safe.
That guilt, Helen thought, shed shoulder forever. Whether she left or stayedthose years were gone. Holly had grown up unwelcome, knowing what her mother chose.
That couldnt be unmade.
***
A few more weeks limped past. Helen clocked in, clocked out. Outwardly, business as usual. She didnt leavebecause she couldnt see the way.
Hollys calls became quick, rare. Helen knew the distance was final now.
In December, she heard about a reasonably priced one-bed going spare nearby. She asked about the rentjust about manageable if she was frugal.
She jotted down the number of the landlady and hid it in a drawer.
One evening, Simon piped up:
Lets do something for Christmas. Turkeys a bargain this year, you know. Bit of sun, bit of fun.
Helen looked at him.
What about Holly?
What about her?
Shell be on holiday. She might want to visit.
She wont. Hasnt before, wont now.
She might still.
Simon sighed.
Helen, when will you get it? Shes grown up. Shes moved on. She doesnt want to spend her holidays with us.
He had a point. Holly hadnt called, hadnt asked about Christmas. No plans to come home.
So, what do you reckon? Shall I book it?
Let me think.
She didnt want sun, or pretending everything was finecertainly not sat with him. But she didnt say no, just nodded, noncommittal.
Later, as Simon snored, Helen smoked on the balcony, trying to picture herself living somewhere that wasnt here. Alone. Could she manage it? Could she take the shame, the solitude?
She didnt know. She only knew the present had become unbearable.
***
New Years Eve, her phone rang.
Mum, happy New Year!
Holly! You alright? Where are you?
At Charlottes, with the girls.
Goodenjoy. Be safe.
Mum, what about you?
Were at home. All fine.
Holly hesitated on the line.
Mum… I love you, you know?
Helens throat tightened.
I love you too, darling.
I just want you to be happy.
Helen tried to lie.
I am happy.
No, youre not. Hollys voice was clear. I can hear it.
Helen nearly crumbled.
Its complicated, love.
I get it. But Mumthink about yourself. You can chase happiness at any age. Even after a divorce. Even… alone.
Thank you, Helen whispered.
I have to go. Love you.
You too. Love you so much.
Helen put the phone down, sat at the kitchen table. She got out the scrap of paper with the landladys number. Simon was already on the sofa, roaring with laughter at some mindless panel show.
But inside, something shifted. There was a life, maybe, where loneliness wasnt the wolf under the bed, but a door. A life where her daughter could visit, no guilt attached. Where she might, just possibly, learn to breathe.
Maybe a split past forty wasnt tragedymaybe it was a kind of rescue.
She dialed the number, voice shaky.
Hello?
Hi. Is your flat still free?
Yes, it is. Interested?
I am. Can I come see it?
Of course, pop round anytime after the second.
Helen wrote down the address, stared out at the gentle, falling snow. Somewhere out there, Holly was drinking prosecco with friends, building her own happiness. Without herbut that could change.
It wasnt too late.
She went to Hollys room, set the butterfly hair clip on the bedside table.
Forgive me, love, she murmured into the half-dark. Ill try to put things right.
She didnt know if it would work. Didnt know if shed be brave enough to truly leave. If Holly would forgive her.
But for the first time in years, something flickeredoutshining the dread, the exhaustion.
It was hope. Small, quiet, feeble.
But for now, it was enough to move. To start.
