Page 19 of What Remains of Grace

“Just breakfast,” Marilyn said quickly.

“No, before that.” Emmie’s voice was sharp. “You said you’re staying.”

Jenna hesitated, “Yeah, for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Emmie crossed her arms. “So one sibling died, and you left, and now the other one died, and you came back? That makes sense.”

“Emmie—”

“Mom needed you, Aunt Jenna! She didn’t have enough help at the bakery, Troy was running around on her, and she still showed up every single day. Why didn’t you sell everything and come back when she was alive? Nobody needs you now! She’s gone! Go back to your life that was so important before!”

Her words hit like a slap, sharp and clean.

Jenna didn’t move. She just stood there, the kitchen between them, the sunlight spilling across the counter as if nothing terrible had ever happened in that house.

Marilyn opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Emmie’s breath came quick and uneven. When she realized no one was arguing back, her eyes filled with tears. She turned and stormed down the hallway, the sound of her door slamming echoing through the house.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, Marilyn touched Jenna’s shoulder. “She’s hurting.”

“I know,” Jenna said quietly. “So am I.”

* * *

The house stayed quiet long after Emmie’s door slammed.

Jenna stood there, the echo still vibrating in her chest, and then turned toward the sink. It was full again, two coffee mugs, a plate, a half-empty glass. Nothing that couldn’t wait, but cleaning felt like the only thing she could still fix.

She filled the sink with hot water and soap, letting the steam rise. The hum of the faucet drowned out everything else, the silence, the anger, the part of her that wanted to run after Emmie and explain something she couldn’t even name.

As she scrubbed, she replayed the words that had cut the deepest: “Mom needed you.” It was true. Grace had needed her, and she hadn’t been there.

But Grace had never seemed like someone who needed saving. She was the kind of woman who made exhaustion look elegant, baking from scratch at five in the morning, showing up to every school event with perfect hair and a pie in her hands, stitching Emmie’s pageant dresses by lamplight, running on caffeine and grit and whatever scraps of peace she could steal.

She drank her water, did her yoga, read her books, and clipped her coupons. She made it all look easy.

Jenna had thought she was fine. Strong. Unbreakable.

But people like Grace, the ones who carried everything, were usually the ones falling apart in silence.

Jenna shut off the faucet and leaned against the counter, her hands trembling slightly from the heat and the weight of it all. She looked around the kitchen, at the worn wooden table, the bowl of fruit that was starting to fade, the faint chalk smudge on the pantry door where Grace used to write grocery lists.

If Grace had been a storm, this house was the stillness that followed, the hollow calm after something powerful finally burned itself out.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Jenna picked up her phone and called her mother.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

The endearment nearly undid her.

“Hey, Mom.”