A short work day

You stare at your phone. The voicemail from Aunt Vanessa sits in your call log like a small weight. Have you told your parents yet?

No. But you can do something smaller.

You open your mother's contact—Linda Bennett, Connecticut, the last text between you three weeks ago about whether you'd found a job yet (you hadn't). You type:

Hey Mom. Just wanted to check in. Things are going well at Aunt Vanessa's. I started a job yesterday—retail, at a boutique in town. It's good. Hope you're doing okay. Love you.

You read it twice. It's bland. Safe. The kind of text you could send from either side of a transition. But it's something—a thread pulled taut between you and the woman who will eventually need to hear the full truth.

Send.

You pocket the phone, finish your coffee, swap the block heels for your flats, and head out to the Bianchi.

The ride to Main Street takes twenty-two minutes of cool morning air and pumping legs. You chain the bike outside Petal & Thread at 8:48am and push through the door.

"Morning, Riley." Margot's already behind the counter, steaming a fresh batch of linen blouses. She glances up. "You look tired."

"I am tired." You set your bag down. "Hey—can I ask a favor? I have a doctor's appointment at three today. Would it be okay if I leave around two-thirty?"

Margot waves a hand. "Of course. Take whatever time you need. We'll manage." She pauses, studying you with those grey-green eyes that miss nothing. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah. Just a checkup. Routine stuff."

"Mm-hm." She doesn't push. "Well, we've got a shipment of fall scarves in the back that needs tagging. Think you can handle that before lunch?"

You can. You do. The morning passes in a blur of price tags and tissue paper and the soft mechanical click of the tagging gun. A regular customer named Dot Farris comes in looking for a birthday gift for her neighbor and leaves with two silk scarves and a pair of reading glasses from the accessory rack. You ring her up, bag her purchases, and she pats your hand on the way out.

"You're new, aren't you? Margot's got a good eye for people."

Your mother texts back at 11:14am: That's wonderful, Riley. So glad you're getting settled. Dad says hi. The "Dad says hi" part is almost certainly a lie—your father hasn't initiated contact with your mother in months—but she includes it anyway, the way she always does, maintaining the fiction of a functional co-parenting relationship that dissolved when you were fourteen.

You reply: Tell him I said hi back and return to the scarves.

Lunch is a granola bar from your bag eaten sitting on the bench outside, watching Main Street drift by. A woman walks a golden retriever past the pharmacy. Two teenagers skateboard past the post office. The world moves at its own pace, indifferent to your appointment, your nightmare, your mother's careful distance.

At 2:20pm, Margot waves you off. "Go. Take care of yourself. I'll close up."

You step outside. The afternoon sun is warm on your bare arms. You've changed back into the block heels—professional for the appointment, you decided—and your crossbody bag holds your wallet, your phone, and the $40 you'll need for Dr. Vasquez.

At 2:24pm, a dark blue Honda Civic pulls up to the curb. Janelle is behind the wheel. She's wearing a mustard-yellow cropped sweater and dark jeans, her box braids pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her eyes find you immediately through the windshield.

She doesn't honk. She doesn't wave. She just waits.

You walk to the passenger door, pull it open, and slide inside. The car smells faintly of ginger tea from the thermos in the cupholder. Janelle's hands are at ten and two on the steering wheel, her knuckles slightly white.

"Hi," she says quietly.

"Hi."

She pulls away from the curb without another word. The silence between you is thick but not hostile—more like a held breath, waiting to see who exhales first.