We cut into it together, passing plates around, talking over each other again—the way we used to, the way we always did when everything felt right.
At some point, someone asked, “So, what do we do now?”
“Wouldn’t put it past you.”
I looked at all nine of them—women now. Strong. Independent. Each different in her own way.
And still… mine.
“We keep going,” I said.
That was it. No grand speech. No dramatic moment. Just the truth.
I looked at all nine of them.
Later that night, after most of them had settled in or begun heading home, I found myself back at the kitchen table. Charlotte’s letter was still lying where I had left it. I picked it up again, running my fingers over her handwriting.
For years, I believed our story had ended without closure.
But now I realized we had simply taken different paths.
And somehow, one of those paths had led right back here.
I smiled softly. “You always did things your own way.”
I thought our story had ended without closure.
“Talking to Mom again?” a voice came from behind me.
I turned to see Mia leaning against the doorway.
“Something like that,” I said.
She walked over and sat across from me. “You know, she used to talk about you.”
“Oh yeah?”
