Page 116 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

She hesitates. “Nothing seemed good enough for us. There would be a teacher you didn’t like. Or the neighbors would drive too fast. Or the school district wasn’t quite the quality I’d expected. Often, I’d tell myself that you’d be happy if only there were more sun or better parks. Or that I was giving you opportunities I never had—a life that I’d always wanted as a kid.

“The truth is I think I was—I was trying to find my way back to the only time in my life I had been completely…” She trails off.

“Happy?” I guess.

She thins her lips. “Free. Although, at the time, it felt like the same thing. We had plans, your father and I. We were going to see the world together. Experience everything that I didn’t have as a child. And when he was gone, it was like—” She blinks and runs her thumb over the plain wedding band that still sits on her finger. “The longer I stayed somewhere, the quicker all that pain came back. Not just losing him, but all of it. My mother’s rages. That feeling of being trapped in a place I hated.”

“Mom,” I whisper as I step toward her.

She pulls me into a firm hug. Her arms hold tight, her temple against mine.

“I know you said my presence wouldn’t help, but I’ll stay, Ali. If you need me, I’ll stay as long as you want.”

Still letting her hold me, I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand.

“Okay,” I say.

The next morning Mom has swapped out her linens and merino wools for a crisp cotton blend. She puts the coffee maker on without asking how to work the finicky buttons and levels the scoop with a precision that reminds me of Logan, standing barefoot in my kitchen, hands dwarfing a coffee mug. That thought is tender, but it’s a clean kind of ache. Earned from a life worth living. Like sore shoulders after a hard day of pruning.

With the Kind of a Big Dill mug back in hand, Mom braces the other against the kitchen counter and squints at the unruly grass beyond the window.

“Where do you keep the mower these days?” she asks.

“In the equipment shed,” I say. “But I need to go to a meeting in town, so I can help you with it when I get back.”

She hands me a mug of coffee. “A meeting?”

“With a Realtor.”

“To sell the farm,” she clarifies.

I nod.

She sets down her mug and watches me for another beat before saying, “Cancel it.”

“Sorry?”

“I don’t think it’s time to accept defeat yet.”

Later that day, we ride the mower together with the blade set low. Occasionally, Mom jumps off the seat to make precise edges with a string trimmer or to test the firmness on the marked pears, looking for clues about their quality.

When we finish, she wipes her brow with a grass-stained sleeve, peers out into the trees, and says, “I want to take another pass on the Sheppard block tomorrow.”

Over her shoulder, I hear another faint popping sound.

The next day, Val bursts through the door unannounced. She comes to a sudden, skidding stop when she catches sight of Mom, standing over the sink with rubber gloves up to her elbows.

They stare at each other. Mom unblinking. Val running her tongue over her teeth.

“You’re back,” Val says flatly.

I clear my throat. “Sorry, I was going to mention that.”

But Val doesn’t break her stare. Oddly, the prolonged eye contact doesn’t make Mom flinch away.

“I’m here for Ali,” she says, lifting her chin, her voice just below breathless.

“Yeah? For how long?”