I wasn't lost.
That was the first thing I realized when I unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside with two extra bags, two extra bodies, and a future that suddenly needed more space than I had.
The apartment felt smaller immediately. Almost comically so. Yesterday, it had been enough for my silence, my grief, my bad habits. Today, it was supposed to fit a family. A huge one, apparently. I laughed under my breath because if I didn't, I would've sat on the floor and cried until morning.
Paul dropped his bag by the couch like he belonged there. Like he had already decided this was temporary, survivable.
Rose stood still, clutching her jacket, eyes moving from wall to wall as if the space might reject us if she stared too hard.
"Well," I said, forcing brightness into my voice, "welcome to our luxury estate. Open-plan living. Very exclusive."
Paul snorted.
Rose didn't smile.
That night, I slept on the couch. I told them the bed was too small, which was true, but not the whole truth. I lay awake listening to their breathing from the bedroom, counting inhales like a promise I had made out loud but wasn't sure I deserved to keep.
I told myself I had chosen this.
I told myself I could do this.
Somewhere between those thoughts, sleep found me.
The school emails came faster than I expected, filling my inbox like life refusing to wait for grief to catch up.
Paul was placed at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, eleventh grade. Big school. Big energy. Big hallways filled with kids who looked like they had places to be and futures to argue about.
"I think I'll be fine," he said too quickly, adjusting his backpack like armor.
And somehow, he was.
Within weeks, he stayed late for study groups, talked about teachers, complained about assignments the way teenagers were supposed to. He mentioned college once, casually, like it was something real and reachable. I watched his shoulders loosen every day we passed the school, and something in my chest followed suit.
Rose started at Cambridge Street Upper School, sixth grade.
She didn't adjust the same way.
The first week, she came home quiet.
The second week, she cried over cereal, tears falling straight into the bowl like she didn't care who saw.
The third week, she told me she hated it.
"I want Mom," she said one night, her voice small and sharp, like a paper cut you didn't notice until it bled.
I nodded. I told her it was okay to miss her.
Then I locked myself in the bathroom and cried into a towel so she wouldn't hear me.
One Saturday, I took Rose shopping. Nothing extravagant. Sneakers she picked herself. A jacket that made her stand taller when she put it on. She laughed for the first time in weeks, spinning in front of the mirror like she was remembering who she used to be.
For a moment, she looked exactly like our mother.
Same smile. Same tilt of the head.
It took my breath away.
At home, she hugged me tightly.
"Thank you," she whispered, like gratitude was something fragile.
Later that night, she asked about Mom again.
This time, I didn't leave the room.
I cried in front of her.
That was when it hit me — despite everything, despite the disappointment and neglect, my mother's absence hurt more than her presence ever had. The finality of it pressed on my chest until breathing felt optional. I hadn't known she meant that much to me. I hadn't known I would miss her like this.
Grief had a way of humiliating you.
One night, after everyone was asleep, I opened my phone and scrolled until I found her name.
I didn't read the messages.
I couldn't.
I archived them instead.
My hands shook as I did it. I wondered what she had been telling me. I wondered how many times she reached out while I chose silence. Guilt settled deep in my chest and refused to leave.
That same night, I booked an appointment with my therapist.
She had texted me before — gently, professionally — asking if I was okay. I hadn't replied then. Now I typed back:
I'm ready to come back. I think I need to talk to you.
The office smelled the same when I returned. Clean. Calm. Familiar. Like a place that remembered who I was even when I didn't.
"It's been three months," she said gently.
"I know."
We talked about my mother. About Paul's numbness. About Rose's grief. About the miscarriage I still didn't know how to name. About Elias. About Janine. About betrayal — how it fractured you quietly, without warning, and left you bleeding in places no one could see.
"You've been surviving," she said. "But survival isn't the same as living."
I stared at the floor.
She spoke about grief. About how love didn't disappear just because someone failed you. About how healing your inner child meant accepting that some wounds weren't your fault — but your responsibility to tend.
"You don't have to punish yourself forever," she said. "You've already paid."
I left feeling lighter. Not healed — just lighter.
Reality didn't pause for therapy.
My phone buzzed that night. A message from my supervising attorney.
Checking in. We've missed you. Let me know when you're ready to come back.
I stared at it for a long time before replying.
I'm getting myself together. I'll be back soon.
I was ready to continue with my paid law internship, grateful it existed at all. The pay wasn't much, but it mattered. I applied for another job. Then another. Two mouths to feed rearranged your priorities fast.
I signed up for a gym membership because my jeans were tighter and my body felt heavier. I needed somewhere to put the stress, even if only for an hour a day.
Some nights, when the apartment was quiet, I found myself praying.
Not formally. Not confidently.
Just… talking.
I wasn't sure what I believed. I just knew this felt too heavy to carry alone.
I wondered where the father of these beautiful kids was. What kind of man left behind this much potential. What kind of silence followed him.
At night, I sat on the couch and looked around.
The space was still too small.
My life was still messy.
I was still figuring it out.
But I wasn't lost.
And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.