Page 102 of The Clifftop Cottage

Leah felt something in her chest give way – not anger now, just exhaustion.

She nodded once and stepped aside. “Then go,” she said. The words were barely louder than breath. She hesitated. “Just like Mum.”

Erica paused.

For a heartbeat, Leah thought she might turn back.

But she didn’t.

The door closed with a small, ordinary click.

Leah stood in the silence afterward, staring at the door as though it might open again.

The fire cast unsteady shadows across the walls. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked – Maisie turning in her sleep.

Leah pressed her fingers to her eyes and hoped fiercely that her daughter had heard none of it.

And that she would never learn how easily love could feel like abandonment.

33

Erica could still leave.

The thought had followed her all the way down the lane, quiet and persistent. She had already tried once before. Maybe this was the sign she’d been waiting for, proof that she wasn’t meant to stay anywhere too long. Some people were built for motion.

Forward. Always forward.

That was what she knew.

What was left for her here now? Especially knowing her mother was somewhere in the world – alive – choosing silence. Choosing absence.

What did staying solve?

Everything inside her felt tugged outward, as though invisible threads were pulling her to something beyond the town, beyond the cottage, beyond the complicated ache of family.

All she had to do was follow.

And yet.

Something held.

She didn’t remember the walk back to the cottage.

Only the cold.

And the echo.

Just like Mum.

The gate hit the stone wall with a sharper crack than usual. It swung back as if offended.

Lucky appeared briefly in the window, a small pale shape, then vanished from sight.

Inside, the cottage felt overly warm, but she didn’t take off her coat.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen as though she’d entered someone else’s home. The table. The Rayburn. The mug she’d chipped. All of it slightly unfamiliar.

You let Maisie down.