Chapter 2

2

I didn't hesitate. I turned and knocked on my neighbor's door. It opened quickly, revealing a young woman in her pajamas, hair messy, half an apple in her mouth. We stared at each other, equally surprised. I'd expected Mrs. Johnson, our elderly neighbor.

I blinked, letting the raindrops on my lashes fall. "Hi, sorry to bother you. I think my mom left a spare key here? Would you mind?"

Ashley, my once-best friend, took the apple from her mouth and looked me up and down, her expression unreadable. "Hold on." She returned with the key. I mumbled my thanks. We stood there awkwardly. I didn't have the energy to deal with our fractured friendship right now. I forced a smile, took the key, and went inside.

I flipped on the light. The sudden brightness stung my eyes, and fresh tears spilled down my cheeks. The apartment was spotless, everything just as I remembered. Like Mom had just stepped out to the store. I carefully placed the urn on the table. My fingers brushed against a layer of dust, and I broke down.

I had helped her escape her abusive marriage, promised her a better life, a bigger house. But she always refused. She said she was happy. That her daughter was married now, and she didn't want to be a burden. She had saved almost all the money I'd given her over the years. It was all in a small savings book, now one of her few remaining possessions, along with her ashes.

After the divorce, Mom's favorite thing to do was look at photos of Evan and me. Her rough fingers traced the images, leaving faint lines of longing. But whenever I brought her to Ethan's house to visit Evan, she'd leave after just one meal. Ethan didn't like outsiders in his home, polite but distant. And Evan, despite my scolding, always made his dislike for his grandmother clear.

I thought I had time to fix things. But Mom got cancer. She hid it from me. By the time I found out and got her to the hospital, it was too late.

I sat there, weeping, consumed by guilt. A knock startled me. I thought it was Ethan, bringing Evan to apologize. Angry, I flung open the door.

It was Ashley, holding a mug of ginger tea, and a chubby little boy, about four or five years old.

Seeing my stunned expression, Ashley sighed. She led the boy inside, completely at ease. "Go take a shower and change. You're soaked. Don't want to catch a cold."

Mom had kept a lot of my old clothes, neatly folded in the closet. I emerged from the shower, red-eyed, unsure what to do. The TV was on, the little boy watching quietly. Ashley was cleaning the apartment like she'd done it a thousand times. She handed me a bowl of freshly made porridge. "Eat," she instructed, then gestured to the boy. "This is my son, Alex. He's five."