Molly arrived sixteen minutes later in a gray wool coat thrown over pajamas, her hair twisted into the kind of messy knot she only wore when she had left the house in a panic.
The moment she saw me standing beneath the stone archway, holding Ivy under the shallow shelter of the porch, her face changed. Anger flashed first. Then fear. Then something softer and more devastating.
“Oh, Tess,” she whispered.
I tried to smile, but my lips trembled before I could stop them. “I didn’t know where else to stand.”
Molly came up the steps and took my overnight bag from my shoulder. “You stand with me. Always.”
She didn’t say Brent’s name. She didn’t need to.
For a moment we simply stood there, two sisters in the cold rain, facing a house that had once felt like proof of survival. Years ago, when I signed the closing papers for Redwood Crest Drive, Molly had cried harder than I did. She knew how many late nights had gone into it, how many meetings I had taken with a fever, how many birthdays I had missed while building my design firm from a rented room above a bakery.
And now the door was locked against me.
Inside Molly’s car, warmth rose from the vents, fogging the windows. Ivy stirred once, made a soft kitten sound, and settled again against my chest.
Molly glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “She’s perfect.”
“She has no idea what happened.”
“That’s a blessing.”
I looked out at the mansion as the car pulled away. The upstairs nursery window glowed faintly. I had painted that room myself in pale green because I didn’t want Ivy’s first world to feel overly delicate. I wanted it to feel alive.
“I left her crib inside,” I said.
“We’ll get another.”
“Her clothes.”
“We’ll get more.”
“My mother’s bracelet is in the safe.”
Molly’s jaw tightened. “Then Jennifer will help you get it back legally. You are not going into that house tonight.”
I knew she was right, but knowing did not make the ache smaller.
At Molly’s house, she led me into the guest room she had already prepared months ago, back when she insisted I stay with her after the birth. I had laughed then and told her I had a husband, a home, a nursery, and a plan.
Plans, I was beginning to understand, were sometimes only beautiful guesses.
Molly made tea while I fed Ivy. I sat in the quiet room, listening to rain whisper against the window. My body hurt in places I had not known could hurt. My heart felt bruised but strangely clear.
