Love You More(64)

I turn and head back downstairs, straight into the garage. The smell washes over me—a faint mildew stench, the chemical tang of old plastic bins, and the cold scent of oil-stained concrete.

I stare at the stacks of boxes and find the one labeled “Erin’s desk files.”

I crouch down and rip open the tape. For the next hour, I go through every page of every file folder—methodical, exhaustive—looking for keywords: Legal. Important. In Case of Emergency.

But there’s nothing. Just page after page of mundane details and ordinary responsibility.

I look again anyway, the dust and ink turning my fingers black.

Finally, I sit back on my heels and let out a long breath. It’s time to stop pretending. There’s no will. No tidy document to guide us. No clear instruction from the past.

I push up slowly, brushing off my jeans.

Then I spot it again—Erin’s pink pregnancy journal, wedged between two folders. It’s probably just filled with mood swings and baby names—but if she wrote anything about what she wanted for Phoebe, I need to know.

I carry it inside.



* * *



— Back in the kitchen, I slide into a chair and rest my fingers on the spine of the book, tracing the ridge.

A beat later, Phoebe rounds the corner, rubbing her eyes.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” she says.

She walks over to my chair, leaning onto me, her arms hooked around my neck.

“What’s that?” she asks, tilting her head toward the book.

“Your mom’s old journal,” I say. “I think she wrote in it when she was pregnant with you.”

“Oh,” she says.

I hesitate, then open the cover, showing her the sonogram photo.

“That’s you,” I say. “Your mom’s first ultrasound.”

“I look like a gummy bear.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I can see it!”

“Does she talk about me in it?”

“I’m sure she does,” I say, closing the book. “I haven’t read it.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know.” I pause. “How would you feel if I did?”

“Journals are private. But maybe it’s okay now?”

The question breaks my heart.

“Maybe so,” I say.

The doorbell rings, slicing through the silence.

I head to the foyer and open the front door. Anna and Eliot sweep in.

“Did you get my text?” Eliot asks.

I shake my head. “No. What did you send?”

“Mick told us about last night, and we thought you could use a hand with Joan today,” he says.

“We could take her to brunch and tour a couple care facilities. I made some calls,” Anna says.

“Oh, that would be a huge help,” I say. “Let me see if she’s awake.”

Anna glances past me. “Where’s Dean?”

“He’s meeting with people at Froedtert Hospital.”

“That’s exciting!” she says.

“So this is really happening?” Eliot asks.

“I think so,” I say.

“Wow,” he says. “It would be amazing to have you back.”

I smile, then tell them Phoebe’s in the kitchen.

A moment later, I find Joan in her bathroom, already dressed in slacks and a striped blouse, combing her hair. She smells powdery, the scent reminding me of childhood.

When I tell her Eliot and Anna are here to take her out, her face brightens.

“How nice,” she says.



* * *



— When we get downstairs, Eliot hugs Joan and says, “The woman of the hour!”

Joan smiles.

“We’re taking you to brunch,” Anna says.

“Do I need to change?”

“No, you’re perfect,” I say.

As Eliot and Anna usher her out the side door, Phoebe laughs and says, “Don’t get in too much trouble, Gram!”

The instant the door clicks shut, Phoebe says, “Can we make chocolate-chip cookies?”

I laugh. “Sure,” I say. “Do we have all the ingredients?”

She nods, opening the cupboard. “Mick and I made some last week. We have chocolate chips left over.”

“Let’s do it,” I say, feeling a pang of guilt—this is their thing, and I’m not just stepping into it, I might take her from him.

We move around each other in the familiar choreography of small kitchens—the clink of measuring cups, the hum of the mixer. Vanilla fills the air. Phoebe cracks eggs with surgical focus. Flour dusts the counter like chalk.

When she thinks I’m not looking, she swipes her finger through batter and licks it clean.

“You know you can get salmonella from raw eggs,” I say.

She shrugs. “Mick said that risk is very low.”

“Oh, he did?” I smile. “I didn’t realize Mick has a medical degree.”

She grins.

I take a deep breath. “Hey, Feebs. I have a question for you—no right or wrong answer.”

She looks up at me.

“Remember when you and Dean were talking about New York last night?”