I pulled my car beneath the sprawling canopy of the old oak tree, its leaves still heavy and dripping from the previous night’s downpour. In my hands, I cradled a jar of homemade blackberry jam, holding it gently as if it were spun glass. Ivy didn’t know I was coming; I had pictured a quiet morning coffee, a small surprise to brighten her week.
She used to live for unexpected moments of joy. However, the moment I crossed the threshold into the farmhouse, the atmosphere felt wrong. The kitchen, usually a sanctuary of open space, felt suffocatingly full.
Heavy coats were draped carelessly over the dining chairs, the shrill cry of a toddler echoed from the living room, and the air hung thick with the smell of heavy grease frying on the stovetop. My daughter stood by the kitchen sink. Her eyes were swollen, and her hair was pulled back severely with a rubber band that looked painful against her scalp.
She didn’t offer a greeting. She simply stared at me, attempting to forge a smile that never quite reached her eyes, crumbling before it began.
That was when I heard the noise. A sharp, commanding voice cut through the air from behind the stove.
— Get your mother out of my kitchen.
I recognized the woman immediately from photographs; it was Rosalind, Robert’s mother. She was flipping food in a skillet with an aggressive familiarity, acting as though she held the deed to the property. She didn’t deem me worthy of a glance. Ivy’s face flushed a deep crimson before draining to a ghostly white.
Her lips parted, trembling as if she were on the verge of speaking, but silence won out.
— It is fine — I said, my voice steady and low. It was the specific, unbreakable calm I had honed during years of teaching fifth grade when a dispute would erupt over school supplies. I placed the jar of jam on the counter with a deliberate clink.
There was no thank you. A man I assumed to be one of Robert’s brothers brushed past me, a beer bottle in hand, ignoring my presence entirely.
There was no hello, not even a flicker of eye contact. I took a step back into the hallway, my heart hammering a steady but deafening rhythm against my ribs.
I scanned the walls. The framed photos were different. There was only one small picture of Ivy and Robert remaining; the rest displayed children I didn’t know and a family tree I wasn’t part of.
Ivy trailed after me, nervously wiping her damp hands on her jeans.
— Sorry, Mama. They have been here a while.
— How long is a while? — I asked, keeping my voice neutral. She didn’t answer, her gaze darting back toward the kitchen like a frightened animal.
That was when I realized the guest bedroom door was shut tight, a sliver of light escaping from underneath. My mind flashed back to six months ago, standing on this very porch, handing Ivy the legal papers as if I were handing her a lifeline. Back then, she and Robert had barely spoken in weeks.
There had been long, suffocating silences and tension so thick it traveled through the telephone lines. I had told her that perhaps a new environment would help, a piece of earth that was truly hers.
— I don’t know, Mama — she had hesitated. — What if the problems just follow us here?
— They won’t — I had promised her. — This is yours. You choose what it becomes.
I had meant every word. The financial burden of the loan was mine, but the house—every floorboard, every window pane, every blade of grass in the front yard—belonged to her. There were no strings attached, no shared titles.
It was just Ivy. I wanted her to feel grounded, to remember the vibrant woman she was before the silence took over.
But the reality of the visit shattered that memory. Last night, I had woken to the shuffling sound of Rosalind’s slippers dragging down the hall. Ivy had been curled up on the living room couch, huddled under a throw blanket that was too short to cover her feet. The master bedroom door had been firmly closed.
The lights were off that time, and I hadn’t pressed for answers. This morning, she brewed a pot of coffee, refusing to meet my gaze.
Rosalind appropriated the first cup without a murmur of gratitude. Robert remained invisible behind the bedroom door.
— I can make breakfast — I offered, trying to be helpful.
— I already made grits — Ivy said, the words rushing out as if she feared a reprimand for letting me near the stove. I took a seat at the table and observed them. Rosalind chattered on about a baby shower for someone I didn’t know.
Ivy nodded mechanically, her eyes glazed over and distant. When she reached for the sugar bowl, her hand shook, scattering granules across the wood. No one lifted a finger to help her wipe it away.
After the plates were cleared, Ivy walked with me to the backyard shed. It used to be her sanctuary, a place for her canvases, jars of dried wildflowers, and color swatches taped to the timber. Today, the walls were stripped bare.
