Breakfast was no longer a croissant from the corner bakery paired with a sleek latte. Instead, it was simple—bacon, eggs, and a mug of tea served on paper plates. “Easier this way,” Brenna said one morning.
“No big cleanup. Time saved is time for pottery.”
She had a way of saying things so directly, without the filters most people wore. It was disarming.
But her habit of setting and resetting the plates on the porch rail, always ensuring they were aligned right, made me watch her closely. Each ritual told a story. “Let’s walk to the lake,” she suggested after breakfast on my second morning.
She slipped out of her sandals, leaving them neatly by the porch steps, and stepped into the grass barefoot. “It’s better like this.”
Dew clung to the grass, cold and sharp against my feet, as I followed her. She led the way, occasionally pausing to touch the leaves or to rearrange a small pile of stones along the path.
Those small, deliberate actions seemed to calm her like they were as necessary as breathing. At the lake, she crouched by the edge, dipping her fingers into the water. “You ever just sit and listen?”
“To what?” I asked, standing stiffly behind her.
“Everything.”
Brenna’s studio became the heart of our days. The air inside smelled earthy and damp, the scent of clay and creativity. She handed me a lump of clay on the third day.
“Here. Try making something.”
My first attempt was a disaster. The clay slid through my fingers, collapsing into a shapeless blob.
“It’s terrible,” I groaned, ready to throw it aside. “It’s not terrible,” Brenna’s hands moved gently as she began reshaping the clay, showing me the motions. “It’s just new.
New things take time.”
Her patience amazed me. Even when I spilled water on her workbench, smearing one of her finished pieces, she didn’t scold me. Instead, she carefully cleaned the mess.
Just as I started to relax, finally free from Loretta’s constant control, her calls became more frequent. It was as if she could sense the shift in me, the way I was beginning to breathe a little easier and live a little differently. That night, her voice came through the line sharp.
“Mona, what are you waiting for? This isn’t a vacation! You need to take action.
She doesn’t know what to do with that kind of money.”
I stayed silent, but my grip on the phone tightened. I could feel her impatience boiling over. “She’s naïve, Mona.
You need to convince her to sign it over. If persuasion doesn’t work, then… Well, figure something out. Use her trust if you have to.”
Her words stung because they felt so wrong in Brenna’s world.
“I don’t know, Grandma. It’s not as simple as you think.”
“It’s exactly that simple,” she barked back. “Don’t get distracted by her little quirks.
Focus, Mona.”
I wanted to argue, to tell her that maybe Brenna deserved more than she realized, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I mumbled something vague and ended the call. For the first time in my life, I started questioning my own motives.
***
The following day, Loretta arrived unannounced, her sharp presence tearing through the peace like a storm. Her heels clicked on the uneven floor as she stepped into the house. “This is where you’ve been hiding?” she snapped, her eyes darting over Brenna’s neatly cluttered pottery studio.
“How can you stand this mess, Mona? And you,” she turned to Brenna, “you have no right to what’s been given to you.”
Brenna froze, her hands trembling as she rearranged vases on the workbench, muttering, “Gift, gift,” under her breath. Loretta ignored her, turning to me.
“Mona, end this nonsense. She doesn’t deserve your father’s legacy. She’s…” Loretta’s voice grew venomous, “not like us.”
“Gift,” Brenna said louder, pointing toward a small cabinet in the corner.
Her rocking grew more pronounced, her fingers twisting at her apron. I hesitated but opened the cabinet. Inside was a stack of old letters, their edges worn and faded.
Each one was addressed to my father. My breath caught. “What are those?” Loretta demanded.
“These are from Brenna’s mother,” I said, flipping through them. “Did you know?”
Loretta paled, but then her face hardened. “I did what I had to!
Do you think I’d let some woman trap my son with a broken child? When she came looking for him, I told her to stay away. I refused to let her and her daughter become part of this family.”
Her words were cruel, and Brenna clung to the table, her wide eyes fixed on Loretta.
“You destroyed this family,” I said, my voice trembling. “You never even told him he had another daughter.”
Loretta’s bitter laugh filled the room. “He found out!
That’s why he changed his will. And now you’re letting her take everything!”
“Dad left a gift,” Brenna said softly. “He wanted me to have it.”
“This isn’t about money, Grandma.
And I won’t let you take anything else from her.”
Loretta stormed out, slamming the door behind her. I turned to Brenna. “I’m so sorry.
I love you, sis.”
“Do you want pancakes?” she suddenly asked as if nothing happened. “Oh, I really do!”
We ate on the porch as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft hues. From that day, we started building a life together.
I helped Brenna grow her pottery studio. We repaired the house, filled it with flowers, and I rediscovered my love for painting by decorating her creations. Word spread, and soon people came from other towns to buy our work.
Life wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. For the first time, I wasn’t living to meet someone else’s expectations. I was living for us—Brenna and me.
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