A week later, Maren stopped answering my calls.
At first, I told myself she needed space. Then I told myself grief had changed her. Then I told myself I had been too critical, too protective, too visible. The mind of an abandoned mother is a cruel courtroom. It calls every memory as evidence against you.
I remembered warning her that Callum seemed controlling. I remembered asking why he held her phone whenever they visited. I remembered telling her she looked tired, and how her face had closed like a window.
Maybe I had pushed too hard.
Maybe love, when frightened, could feel like a cage.
So I waited. I sent short texts on holidays. I mailed a scarf for her birthday. I left flowers at her gate once, only to find them in the trash bin outside the service entrance the next day.
By the time her message arrived that Friday, I had taught myself not to expect miracles.
Still, I answered in less than ten seconds.
I’ll be there, sweetheart.
No reply came.
I closed the shop early. My assistant, Jonah, asked if something was wrong because I dropped the same roll of ribbon twice.
“Maren wants to see me,” I said.
His face softened. Everyone at the shop knew, though they pretended not to. Grief has a smell. Even wrapped in perfume and clean clothes, people notice it.
“Drive carefully,” he said.
I went home, changed three times, and finally chose a navy dress Maren had once said made my eyes look less sad. I pinned my hair. I put on the pearl earrings. Then I sat on the edge of my bed for five full minutes, afraid that if I moved too quickly the invitation would vanish.
The road to Maren’s house wound along the coast, where winter rain turned the cliffs black and the ocean seemed to breathe in the dark. The house stood on a rise above the bay, all glass, stone, steel, and silence. I had helped with the down payment before Callum convinced Maren that accepting help from me had been a mistake. My name was still connected to part of the property, though we no longer discussed it.
The gate opened before I pressed the call button.
That should have been my first warning.
I drove up the long, wet driveway. The fountain in the center court was empty, its basin filled with leaves. Cameras blinked beneath the eaves. The windows glowed faintly, but no one came to the door.
I parked and checked my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me seemed hopeful in a way that embarrassed me. I touched one pearl earring and whispered, “Please let her be kind.”
Then I opened the car door.
“Helen.”
The voice came from the side garden.
Agnes Bell, Maren’s private nurse, stepped out from behind the hedge. She had cared for Maren after the last miscarriage, a quiet woman in her fifties with careful hands and tired eyes. That night she wore no coat, only a gray cardigan damp from the rain. Her feet were in house slippers.
She crossed the stones fast and seized my wrist.
“Turn around,” she whispered. “Do not touch the front door.”
I stared at her. “Agnes? What happened? Is Maren hurt?”
Her grip
