Prelude

The rhythm of the machines pulsed in the sterile room, a mechanical counterpoint to the quiet stillness that had settled between them. The man in the bed, his face etched with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion, reached out a hand. It was a gesture familiar, a silent language between the two of them. She took it, her fingers gently intertwining with his. His grip was weaker now, but the warmth was still there, a spark of the vibrant life that had once filled their days.

He didn’t need to speak. His eyes, those deep, knowing eyes, conveyed everything. There was love there, unwavering and profound. There was regret, a flicker of things left undone, dreams left unchased. But most of all, there was acceptance. A quiet understanding that some journeys, however cherished, must come to an end.

She held his hand, her own throat tight with unshed tears. She had learned to swallow them, to push them down, to be the anchor in their storm. He needed her strength, not her sorrow. But in this moment, with the veil between worlds thinning, she allowed herself a small crack, a glimpse of the pain that threatened to overwhelm her.

He squeezed her hand, a tiny, reassuring pressure. It was as if he were saying, It’s okay. You’ll be okay. And in that moment, she knew he was right. Not in the way she wanted, not with him by her side, but in a way that would forge her into something stronger, something more resilient. She would gather the pieces of her shattered heart and rebuild, not into something whole again, but into something new, something that could withstand the storms.

His breathing grew shallow, each inhale a fragile whisper. She leaned closer, her forehead resting against his hand. The rhythmic pulsing of the machines seemed to fade, replaced by the steady beat of her own heart, a drumbeat of resolve.

Slowly closing his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. And in that quiet moment, the world shifted, the balance of their universe altered forever. The hand in hers grew still, the warmth slowly fading.

She didn’t cry out. She simply held his hand, her gaze fixed on his peaceful face. The pain was there, a raw, gaping wound, but beneath it, something else was stirring. A fierce determination, a quiet strength, a promise to herself and to him. She would carry his love with her, a beacon in the darkness. And she would find a way to bloom again, even in the aftermath of loss.

Just as the hottest fire forges the strongest steel, this pain would not break her. It would refine her. It would shape her. It would make her into the woman she was meant to be. A woman who knew the depths of sorrow but also the heights of love. A woman who could face the stillness, and find the strength to move forward.

Chapter 1 

The canopy of white and pink dogwoods cast beautiful flickering shadows from the yellow midday sun onto the streets of Wisteria Falls, South Carolina. It was days like this that made everything seem a little more alive in the quiet southern town. Amity Lawson smiled as the birds chirped and a soft breeze carried the faint scent of honeysuckle through the air. 

Amity loved mornings like these, where the fresh air felt crisp but the sun felt warm on her skin. As she strolled, she remembered why she had chosen to stay in this quaint little town instead of joining her friends in the big cities. Unlike the fast paced environment of the big cities, everyone knew your name in Wisteria Falls. They knew your life story and they cared enough to remember your favorite slice of pie when you sat down at the diner.

Her pace nothing more than a slow leisure stroll, Amity wandered down Main Street with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and her sandals clicking softly on the pavement. Her vibrant, green eyes took in every detail as she walked. Amity was the kind of person who could light up a room just by entering it. There was something undeniably radiant about her that went far beyond her physical beauty. She would just blush and laugh when people suggested that she must carry her own sunlight, that warm, steady glow that made others feel at ease in her presence. It wasn’t just that she had a wide, bright smile or beautiful, sparkling, green eyes, it was the way she actually listened when people spoke instead of waiting for her turn to talk. People loved how she remembered the smallest details about their lives and the kindness she offered freely.

“Good mornin’, Amity!” Mrs. Turner called from her rocking chair on the wide porch of her antiques shop.

Amity turned, her dimples deepening as she flashed a smile. “Mornin’, Mrs. Turner. Y’all sittin’ out here just makes this town look prettier.”

The older woman laughed, shaking her head. “Flatterer. But you’d best come by soon. Got some new dishes in that I think you’d like.”

“Don’t tempt me now,” Amity teased. “You know I’ve already got too many dishes as it is. But I’ll swing by this week, I promise.”

Everyone in town knew Amity, and everyone loved her. She just had a way of making every person feel seen, as if they were the only ones in the room when they talked to her. Her personality wasn’t flashy or loud. It was quiet, steady, and utterly genuine.

She continued her afternoon stroll, stopping first by Millie’s Market. The little grocery story was the anchor of the downtown area, with wooden crates overflowing with fresh, local produce. Amity always made a point of shopping here instead of the big box stores on the outskirts of town. Not just because she liked supporting the local farmers, but because she enjoyed the sense of community it brought as she spoke and shopped with her friends and neighbors.

Wandering through the aisles, she let her fingers brush lightly over the smooth skin of the tomatoes, and the cool, leafy bundles of fresh basil as she grabbed what she needed. Tonight’s dinner was already planned in her mind: a savory beef and vegetable stew, paired with slices of crusty sourdough bread. It was one of Logan’s favorites, and she couldn’t wait to see her son’s face light up when he got home from school and smelled it cooking in the kitchen.

“Miss Amity!” came a high-pitched voice.

She turned to see little Johnny Parsons running toward her, his face sticky from what she could only assume was an assortment of fruits and candies. His mother followed close behind, exasperated but smiling.

“Well, look at you, sugar!” Amity said, crouching down to his level. “Got yourself into trouble already this mornin’, huh?”

Johnny giggled, hiding behind his mother’s leg.

“I swear, this boy doesn’t listen to a word I say,” his mother said with a sigh.

Amity laughed. “Oh, not many boys his age listen. Logan was the same way. Y’all should bring Johnny over sometime—I’m sure Logan would enjoy having another boy to dig in the dirt with, and I always enjoy some good company.”

She chatted with the two of them for a while, her easy laughter filling the small space and drawing smiles from other shoppers. Even the cashier, who had been looking tired and distracted moments before, seemed to perk up when Amity approached with her basket of groceries.

“How’s your mama doin’, Grace?” Amity asked as the young girl scanned her items.

Grace smiled shyly. “She’s better, thanks to you. That casserole was a lifesaver. She said to tell you she’ll never forget your kindness.”

“Oh, hush now,” Amity said, modestly waving off the praise. “I just did what any decent person would. You tell her I’m stoppin’ by soon to see how she’s doing. Y’all take care, okay?”

By the time she left Millie’s Market, her canvas bag was filled with everything she needed. She paused outside to adjust the strap on her shoulder, her eyes catching the sunlight in a way that made them gleam like polished emeralds.

Her next stop was the bakery, a quaint little shop with a painted sign that read Sweet Magnolia Bakes. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and dough that had yet to be put in the oven. The combination was so intoxicating it made her flat stomach rumble.

“Morning, Ms. Amity!” The baker called from behind the counter.

“Mornin’, Paul. Y’all got that sourdough ready?”

“You bet,” he said, handing her a neatly wrapped loaf. “And just for you, I tossed in a couple of those sweet rolls your boy likes so much. On the house.”

Amity laughed, shaking her head. “Paul, you keep this up, and I’m gonna have to start payin’ double just to make it fair.”

“Not a chance,” he replied with a grin.

She tucked the bread into her bag with a warm thank you and made her way back out into the warm air. The sun was higher in the sky now, and while the shadows it cast were sharper, the air still carried that pleasant, morning freshness.

Amity’s walk home from town was just as leisurely as she did while running errands in town. She passed by neighbors’ houses, some with peeling shutters, and others with freshly painted porches. They all had that unique charm that made it home to its inhabitants. 

Her house lay at the end of the quiet street. It was a modest, two-bedroom home painted a soft shade of pale blue with a faded roof. The trim on the house was a white that needed touching up, but it had a welcoming front porch framed by neatly arranged flower boxes. The house was small, but full of character. The yard was tidy, but the grass did need a trim. She made a mental note to try to get it mowed this weekend. A small gravel walkway led up to the front steps, flanked by the flowerbeds. She climbed the front steps, the wood creaking slightly under her sandals, and unlocked the door.

Inside, the house was warm and inviting, filled with touches that reflected Amity’s personality. The walls were painted in soft, neutral tones adorned with framed family photos and small watercolor paintings she’d collected over the years. The furniture was simple but comfortable, with floral-patterned cushions on the couch and a handwoven blanket draped over the armrest. The kitchen, visible from the front door, had white cabinets, a well-worn butcher block countertop, and a cheerful yellow tea kettle sitting on the stove.

Amity set her canvas bag of groceries on the counter and put the loaf of sourdough on a small cutting board. She peeked at the clock on the wall. There were still a few hours before Logan would be home from school, so she decided to take advantage of the quiet time.

Humming softly to herself, she began tidying up the house. It wasn’t particularly messy, Amity wasn’t one to let things pile up, but she liked keeping things in order. She started in the living room, fluffing the cushions on the couch and wiping down the coffee table with a lemon-scented cloth. As she worked, she hummed an old country tune her grandmother used to sing, the melody soft and comforting.

She moved to the small dining area, straightening the chairs and placing a fresh bouquet of daisies in the center of the table. The flowers were from her own garden, their cheerful white and yellow blooms brightening the room.

In Logan’s room, she picked up a few stray toys, monster trucks and dinosaurs, and placed them neatly in the wooden chest at the foot of his bed. His room was simple but full of personality, with posters of dinosaurs on the walls and a small bookshelf overflowing with well-loved adventure novels.

Finally, she returned to the kitchen. The sunlight streaming through the window above the sink gave the room a warm glow. Amity tied on her apron, a floral-patterned one that had belonged to her mother, and began preparing dinner.

She worked methodically, her long, delicate fingers sure and steady as she chopped the vegetables she’d picked up at the market. The zucchini, carrots, and onions went into a pot with a generous splash of olive oil, their aroma filling the kitchen as they began to sizzle. Amity added the beef, browning it until the edges were perfectly seared, then poured in a rich broth and a handful of fresh rosemary.

As the stew simmered, she wiped down the counters and began slicing the sourdough bread. Her humming turned into soft singing, her voice sweet and lilting as she sang an old folk song. The sound filled the small house, blending with the bubbling of the stew and the gentle creak of the front porch swing swaying in the breeze. She paused for a moment to look out the kitchen window, her green eyes softening as she gazed at the backyard. It wasn’t large, but it was well-loved, with a small vegetable garden in one corner and a wooden picnic table under the shade of a tall oak tree. Logan had spent countless afternoons playing back there, his laughter echoing through the air as he swung from the low branches or chased fireflies at dusk.

The thought brought a smile to her face, her dimples deepening as she turned back to the stove to give the stew a final stir. It was these simple moments, these quiet, unremarkable hours of tending her home and preparing a meal for her son, that brought Amity the greatest joy. She set the table, laying out the plates and bowls with care, and placed the bread in a small wicker basket lined with a cloth napkin. The house smelled heavenly, the kind of aroma that made you feel instantly at home.

By the time everything was ready, the clock was inching closer to four o’clock. Logan would be home soon, and Amity couldn’t wait to hear about his day. For now, she sank into the chair by the kitchen window, a cup of sweet tea in hand, and let herself enjoy the peaceful quiet, knowing the energy of her son’s return was just around the corner.

Chapter 2

The first rays of dawn crept over the rugged peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains, casting a golden hue across the Long Ridge Campground. The air was crisp, tinged with the earthy aroma of damp leaves and pine, a reminder of the night’s lingering chill. The loner stirred inside his compact tent, a marvel of modern engineering that, when folded, was scarcely larger than a beer can. The thin, worn fabric glowed faintly in the morning light, the shadows of tree branches dancing across its surface.

Inside, his dark brown hair lay in disarray, the tousled locks brushing against his shoulders. With a quiet groan, he sat up, the movement deliberate, as if he measured each action against some internal clock. His piercing blue eyes, still heavy with sleep, scanned the forested surroundings visible through the slightly unzipped flap.

The sun climbed higher, illuminating the frost-kissed grass and the lingering mist that curled through the trees. Unzipping the tent with a sharp jerk, he stepped outside, his boots crunching softly on the earth. He stretched, his muscular frame silhouetted against the morning light, then crouched to disassemble the tent. His calloused hands worked with practiced efficiency, folding the material into a compact bundle that he secured into one of the Kawasaki’s saddlebags.

Next, he turned his attention to the fire pit he had fashioned from a ring of stones. The ashes of last night’s fire still smoldered faintly. From another saddlebag, he pulled a small kettle, which he filled with water before placing it near the embers. Once the water began to boil, he poured it into an enamel mug and stirred in the coffee grounds. The smell of instant coffee mingled with the mountain air as he stirred it with a metal spoon, the sound faint but soothing in the silence.

He drank his coffee slowly, perched on a fallen log, staring into the middle distance. The view from the campground was nothing short of spectacular, the peaks of the Appalachians layered like waves, their edges softened by the morning mist. Yet the man seemed indifferent to the splendor, his expression stoic, almost detached.

Once finished, he rinsed the mug with the remainder of the water from the kettle, packed it away, and cinched the saddlebags tight. With everything in place, he adjusted his moose brown Legendary Whitetails Bozeman canvas coat, its worn seams and patches telling stories of long miles traveled. Finally, he slung a small toiletry bag over his shoulder and set off for the campground’s communal shower block.

The gravel path crunched under his boots, drawing the attention of nearby campers. Some were seated around their trailers, others tending to fires of their own. A woman in a red flannel shirt called out, “Morning!” A man with a thick beard and a thermos in hand raised a silent greeting. The drifter ignored them all, his gaze fixed ahead. There was no malice in his silence, but neither was there warmth; it was simply the behavior of a man uninterested in connection.

At the showers, he entered the tiled enclosure and hung his bag on a metal hook. Steam quickly filled the room as he turned the water on, the steady cascade washing away the grime of days spent on the road. Beneath the stream, his rugged exterior was revealed in sharp detail.

His torso bore the marks of a hard life. A web of burn scars stretched across his chest and abdomen, which continued down his left shoulder and arm, the tissue uneven and pale against the rest of his sun-kissed skin. The scars told a silent story, one of pain and survival, though they did nothing to diminish the strength evident in his broad shoulders and defined musculature. Water streamed over his powerful frame, tracing the angular lines of his body and pooling briefly in the shallow depressions left by the scars.

The shower’s spray was relentless, pounding against Emmet’s body like a drumbeat, the steam rising around him in ghostly tendrils. He tilted his head back, letting the water soak his long, shaggy hair until it clung to his neck and shoulders in dark, heavy strands. The once-dark brown locks shone faintly under the dim fluorescent lighting, hints of natural highlights appearing in the dampness.

His beard, thick and unruly, was another story altogether. Water streamed through its dense growth, darkening it to near black, droplets catching at the ends like dew on a forest floor. It framed his face with a rugged, almost primal edge, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline. Emmet rubbed a hand over it absently, slicking it back and feeling the coarse texture beneath his fingers. Despite its unkempt appearance, there was a strange symmetry to it, as though chaos had been shaped into something deliberate.

The water cascading down his face revealed the features hidden beneath the layers of road grit. His piercing blue eyes, which often held a mix of intensity and quiet warmth, were closed, the thick lashes clumping together. His eyebrows, arched and well-defined, gave his face an expressive quality that belied the stoicism he carried in every interaction. 

When he finally stepped out, the room was thick with steam, the mirror fogged and streaked with condensation. Grabbing a towel from the hook, he scrubbed at his hair and beard first, forcing the water out in quick, decisive motions. His reflection, faint and blurred in the fogged mirror, caught his attention for a fleeting moment before he turned away.

He reached into his toiletry bag, retrieving a small comb. With slow, practiced movements, he pulled it through his hair, taming the damp locks enough to push them back from his face. The comb then found its way to his beard. Though he worked quickly, there was a ritualistic care in the way he shaped the coarse hair, smoothing its wildness but never taming it completely. 

The reflection that looked back at him looked so similar and yet so different than what he had always known. Once upon a time the beard was nonexistent. Instead, he sported a strong, square jawline that added to his masculine appeal and gave his face a defined and robust structure. Instead of long, greasy hair, he sported a high and tight, well maintained, military hair cut. This soldier, the man that he used to be, was a distant memory. While they might be two complete people, the eyes however, were just as cold and blank.

After pulling on his worn jeans and a clean, black T-shirt, he slipped into his coyote brown M-65 field jacket. The jacket fit him perfectly, snug over his shoulders and the expanse of his chest. It was weathered from years on the road, the coyote brown darkened and stained, the inner lining having been sewn back together multiple times. It was a second skin as much as it was clothing.

He strapped his boots on tightly, their scuffed surfaces telling stories of long hikes and heavy wear. His hands, strong and rough from years of work, lingered briefly on the edge of his jacket as he adjusted it, making sure the fit was right. Then he slung the toiletry bag over one shoulder and stepped out of the shower block, his damp hair catching the light, his beard still slightly glistening from the water.

He left the shower block without a glance at anyone, heading back to his motorcycle. The Kawasaki Vulcan Mean Streak sat gleaming in the early morning sun, its black-and-chrome frame a stark contrast to the wilderness around it.

With practiced ease, he mounted the bike, kicked it into gear, and roared down the gravel road, leaving behind the quiet campground and the curious eyes of those who watched him go.

Chapter 3

The screen door banged shut with Logan’s usual enthusiasm, rattling the frame and sending a faint echo through the quiet house. Amity, standing at the stove with a wooden spoon in hand, winced. She’d told him about that door a hundred times, and still, he charged inside like a whirlwind every afternoon.

“Logan Lawson!” she called, stirring the pot of green beans simmering in a broth of bacon grease and seasoning. “What did I say about slamming that door?”

“Sorry, Mama,” came the distracted reply. His voice was high-pitched, with just a trace of lingering baby softness, though his tone carried the indifference of an eight-year-old who didn’t really mean it.

Amity set the spoon down and smoothed her apron before stepping into the hallway. Logan stood there, dropping his overstuffed backpack with a loud thud and toeing off his sneakers in the middle of the floor. She took him in for a moment. He was the spitting image of her, apart from that golden hair that gleamed like sunlight—his father’s unmistakable legacy. His skin was a warm caramel tone, the result of her own darker complexion blended with his father’s fairer one. It seemed to catch the light in a way that made him glow, as though the sun had left its imprint on him.

His eyes, wide and green like hers, darted around, taking in the smells of dinner wafting from the kitchen. They had that same expressive quality hers did, every thought and feeling flashing through them like an open book. He had the kind of face that drew people in, with a sprinkling of freckles across his small nose and cheeks that hadn’t quite lost their baby roundness. His hair was messy, sticking up in every direction as if he’d spent the whole day running his fingers through it. He was all long limbs and knobby knees, his jeans slightly frayed at the cuffs from growing faster than she could shop.

“Shoes,” she said, crossing her arms and fixing him with a look.

Logan sighed heavily, the kind of exaggerated sigh that seemed to fill the room. “Fine,” he muttered, picking them up and tossing them by the door.

“Thank you. Now go wash your hands. Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, her voice softening as she smiled at him. He needed those little reminders of love as much as he needed discipline, and she was careful to balance both.

Logan paused, looking over his shoulder suspiciously. “Why’s it all fancy tonight?”

Amity hesitated, her fingers gripping the edge of her apron. She smoothed the soft fabric instinctively, her mind running through how best to handle this moment. She knew her son better than anyone—knew his moods, his fears, the way he could sense when something was just a little bit off.

“Because Daniel’s coming over,” she said finally, keeping her tone light but steady.

Logan turned fully, his hazel eyes narrowing. “Why does he have to come? Can’t it just be us?”

Amity crouched down, so they were eye level, brushing her fingers through his unruly hair. “Logan, I know you’re not thrilled about this, but Daniel’s important to me. I’d really like it if you gave him a chance.”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest, a defiant pout forming on his lips. “I don’t like him.”

The words were sharp, cutting deeper than he could have known. Amity’s smile faltered, but she steadied herself, cupping his cheek in her hand. “Sweetheart, I know he’s not your daddy. And no one’s trying to take his place. But Mama deserves to have someone who makes her happy. Don’t you think that’s fair?”

Logan didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the floor. She could see the storm of emotions brewing behind his eyes, the stubbornness, the sadness, the confusion.

Finally, he shrugged. “I guess.”

“That’s my boy,” she said, kissing his forehead. “Now, you’ve got homework to finish before dinner, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you about it. Deal?”

“Deal,” he grumbled, trudging off toward the living room.

Amity straightened, her hands falling to her sides as she watched him go. She exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation settling over her like a heavy blanket. Being a single mother wasn’t something she’d planned for, and it wasn’t a role she carried lightly. Every decision felt monumental, every step forward fraught with uncertainty. She wanted Logan to have stability, to feel safe, to know he was loved above all else. But she also wanted more for herself, a chance at happiness, companionship, maybe even love. Was that too much to ask?

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway announced Daniel Foster’s arrival. Amity glanced at the clock on the wall. He was a little early, but she expected no less. Punctuality was one of his trademarks, just like his sharp suits and slicked-back hair.

She wiped her hands on her apron, smoothing it out more from nerves than necessity. Dinner was ready, the table set with her finest china, and Logan was still working on his homework in the living room. Everything was in place, but Amity couldn’t shake the butterflies in her stomach. Daniel wasn’t just anyone; he was the mayor of their small Southern town, a man of status and power. And yet, here he was, courting a single mother like her.

The knock at the door was firm but polite, just like him. Amity took a deep breath, pulling the door open to reveal Daniel standing on the porch, his tall frame outlined against the fading light. He was, as always, impeccably dressed in a tailored navy suit that looked freshly pressed, a crisp white shirt, and a burgundy tie. His dark hair, slicked back with precision, revealed a widow’s peak and a receding hairline he made no attempt to disguise. If anything, it added to his air of authority, as if he’d long ago accepted it as a mark of maturity rather than something to be hidden.

“Good evening, Amity,” Daniel said, his voice smooth and deep. He offered her a warm smile, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all,” Amity replied, stepping aside to let him in. “Come on in. Dinner’s just about ready.”

Daniel stepped into the house, his polished leather shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floor. He carried himself with the confidence of a man used to being in charge, but there was a softness in his expression when he looked at her, a kind of quiet admiration that made Amity’s cheeks flush.

“Something smells amazing,” he said, glancing toward the kitchen.

“Fried chicken,” Amity said with a smile. “And all the fixings. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” Daniel replied, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. “It’s been a long day at City Hall. This is exactly what I needed.”

Amity couldn’t help but notice how out of place he looked in her modest home. The sharp lines of his suit, the polished sheen of his shoes—they were a stark contrast to the warmth of her cozy kitchen, with its gingham curtains and the faint scent of lavender cleaner lingering in the air. Still, he seemed at ease, as though he belonged here.

Logan chose that moment to appear in the doorway, his expression guarded. He’d changed into a clean T-shirt and sweatpants after school, his blonde hair sticking up in messy tufts. His hazel eyes, so much like Amity’s, darted to Daniel, then back to her, silently questioning why he had to be here.

“Logan, you remember Mr. Foster,” Amity said, her voice gentle but firm.

“Mayor Foster,” Logan corrected under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Logan,” she said, her tone sharper now. “Be polite.”

“Nice to see you again, Logan,” Daniel said, crouching slightly so they were at eye level. His smile, although seemingly fake, had that warmth that only a business man could pull off. But Logan didn’t soften.

“Yeah,” Logan muttered, shuffling back toward the living room. “I’ve got homework.”

Amity sighed as Daniel straightened, his smile faltering just slightly. “I’m sorry about that,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s still getting used to… everything.”

“Yeah, I see that.” Daniel said, his tone reassuring. “He just needs a man around to teach him about manners, I guess.”

Amity managed a small smile. Logan’s reaction wasn’t unexpected, but it didn’t make it any easier. She gestured toward the dining table. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll bring everything over.”

Daniel nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. “You’ve got a beautiful home, Amity,” he said, his voice sincere.

“Thank you,” she replied, brushing a stray curl from her face. “I do my best.”

As she moved back into the kitchen, she couldn’t help but wonder how this evening would unfold. Would Logan soften to Daniel over dinner? Could she find a way to bridge the gap between the two most important people in her life? Or would the walls Logan had built around his heart prove too strong to tear down?

Carrying the platter of fried chicken to the table, she pushed the doubts aside. Tonight wasn’t just about dinner, it was about building something new, something hopeful. She just prayed it would be enough.

She returned to the kitchen, stirring the green beans absently as her mind raced. The fried chicken was crisping up in the oven, the mashed potatoes were creamy and smooth, and the cornbread was cooling on a wire rack. She glanced at the sweet tea pitcher on the counter, her reflection faint in its glass surface. She looked every bit the southern belle, hair perfectly styled, makeup soft and natural, and her favorite gingham dress cinched at the waist. But underneath the polished exterior, she was just a woman trying to hold it all together.

Amity carefully set the casserole dish of steaming mashed potatoes on the table, adjusting it just so. Everything had to be perfect tonight, though the tension simmering in the house threatened to undo her efforts. The fried chicken sat golden and crisp on a serving platter, surrounded by green beans and cornbread. She took a deep breath, smoothing the front of her apron again.

“Daniel,” she said, glancing toward him where he sat at the table. “Would you mind telling Logan dinner’s ready?”

“Of course,” Daniel replied easily, pushing back his chair and heading toward the living room. His polished shoes clicked softly against the hardwood, and Amity forced herself to focus on the task at hand, pouring tea into glasses with practiced precision.

But before she could call out to remind him to be patient with Logan, a loud yell shattered the quiet.

“STOP!” Logan’s voice, sharp and high-pitched, carried through the house, followed almost immediately by the sound of crying, two distinct cries, one small and angry, the other deeper and full of frustration.

Amity’s heart dropped. She abandoned the tea pitcher on the counter and rushed toward the living room. The sight that greeted her froze her mid-step: Daniel stood near the couch, bent over and rubbing his leg as Logan on the floor cradling his arm. Her son’s face, twisted in pain and shock, was blotchy and streaked with tears.

“What in the world is going on in here?” Amity demanded, her voice rising with equal parts alarm and anger.

Daniel looked at her, his dark eyes narrow. “I—I told him dinner was ready,” he began, his voice soft. “He got lippy with me, so I went to lift him up from the floor, just to lead him into the dining room, and he started throwing a fit.”

“That’s not what happened!” Logan shouted, his small frame trembling with rage. “He’s lying, Mama! I didn’t do anything!”

“Logan!” Amity snapped, her head spinning as she tried to make sense of the chaos. She looked back at Daniel. “Are you ok?”

“I think so,” Daniel muttered, lifting his leg up in the arm slowly before placing his foot back on the floor. “He kicked me when I tried to help him up.”

Amity’s stomach churned. She turned to her son, who was breathing hard, his eyes wild with anger. “Logan James, is that true? Did you kick him?”

“No!” Logan screamed, his voice cracking. “He grabbed me, Mama! He grabbed me, and I told him to stop! He wouldn’t let go!” His words tumbled out in a frantic rush, his face crumpling as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. “I don’t like him! I don’t want him here!”

Amity sat back on her heels, her heart pounding. She looked between the two of them, Daniel’s hurt, bewildered expression and Logan’s raw, unfiltered anguish. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what had really happened.

“Daniel,” she said carefully, keeping her voice steady, “why did you feel the need to touch him at all?”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt him, Amity,” Daniel said, his tone defensive. “He was ignoring me, so I thought if I guided him into the room.”

“You grabbed me!” Logan interrupted, his voice shaking. “You tried to drag me, and I told you to stop!”

Amity held up a hand, silencing both of them. She pressed her fingers to her temple, feeling a headache coming on. “Logan, go to your room. Now.”

“But…”

“No buts,” she said firmly, locking eyes with him. “We’ll talk about this later. Go.”

Logan hesitated, his small frame still trembling, before he turned and stomped up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed shut a moment later, making her flinch.

Amity turned back to Daniel, who was now sitting on the couch, his injured arm resting on the armrest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, though his tone was clipped. “Amity, I didn’t mean to upset him. I was just trying to help.”

“I know,” she said, though the words felt hollow. She sank onto the edge of the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “But he’s not ready for this, any of it. He’s still… adjusting.”

Daniel sighed, his expression softening. “I just wanted to connect with him, Amity. To show him I’m not the enemy.”

She nodded, her throat tight with unshed tears. “I know you did. But maybe tonight wasn’t the right time.”

Amity pressed her hands against her thighs, the tension in the room so thick it felt like a weight pressing down on her chest. She didn’t know what to say, or even how to begin salvaging the evening. Logan’s cries echoed faintly from upstairs, but the quiet fury radiating from Daniel was what held her attention now.

“Daniel,” she said softly, her voice wavering. “I think maybe it’s best if we call it a night.”

He blinked, his polished exterior faltering for the briefest moment before he forced a tight smile. “Amity, there’s no need to.. ”

“I mean it,” she interrupted gently but firmly, her eyes meeting his. “Logan’s upset, and honestly, so am I. I just think we need to take a step back.” She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. “Maybe next time, we should do something, just the two of us.”

Daniel’s expression hardened ever so slightly, though he masked it with a polite nod. “If that’s what you think is best,” he said, his tone measured but strained, the edges sharp enough to cut.

Amity noticed the subtle way his jaw tightened, the small tic in his cheek as if he was fighting to keep something buried beneath the surface. She felt a chill creep up her spine but pushed the feeling aside. He had a right to be frustrated, didn’t he? The evening hadn’t gone how either of them had hoped.

“I do,” she said softly, offering him a conciliatory smile. “Thank you for understanding.”

Daniel stood, brushing invisible dust from his suit as he straightened. “Of course,” he said, his voice calm, but Amity could see it, the boiling anger just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over but held tightly in check. His dark eyes flickered toward the staircase where Logan had disappeared, and for a split second, his carefully composed mask slipped.

Amity’s stomach churned as she caught the look he cast toward her son’s direction. It wasn’t long, just a moment, but it was unmistakable. A glare filled with cold, quiet fury. A death stare that sent an involuntary shiver racing down her spine.

“I’ll see myself out,” Daniel said smoothly, his voice betraying none of the anger she’d seen in his eyes. He turned toward the door, his polished shoes clicking against the floor.

“Goodnight, Daniel,” Amity called after him, trying to maintain a steady tone.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, glancing back at her. His smile returned, cool and practiced. “Goodnight, Amity.”

The door clicked shut behind him, followed by the roar of the engine and tires peeling out across the gravel. The sound of his car engine soon faded into the distance. Amity stood frozen in the middle of the living room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The warmth of the house suddenly felt suffocating.

She exhaled shakily, her thoughts spinning. She couldn’t ignore what she’d seen, and she couldn’t shake the way Daniel had looked at Logan. Protective anger bubbled up in her chest, and for a moment, she hated herself for letting him anywhere near her son.

Logan’s muffled sobs from upstairs snapped her out of her thoughts. She climbed the stairs slowly, her feet heavy with guilt. Tonight had been a disaster, but more than that, it had been a wake-up call. Logan needed her, and she had to do better for him, and for herself.