Chapter 2

POV: Joanna

The mansion didn't feel like a home; instead, it resembled a museum commemorating a life I was uncertain I had genuinely experienced. I stood by the immense windows in the great room, observing the gardener as he trimmed the hedges bordering our quarter-mile driveway.

The morning sun was high in the sky, shining brightly. Everything felt perfect – the imported marble, the carefully chosen art, the custom-made furniture that had cost more than the homes I used to envy while growing up. It was all perfect, yet completely empty.

"Maria, our housekeeper for the past eight years, was standing in the doorway holding a silver tray. On it were my coffee and the contracts for the Denver acquisition.

"Thank you, Maria. Please place them on the desk."

She did so efficiently and without a sound, then paused before asking, "Will Miss Hailey be joining us for breakfast?"

"She has already departed for a conference in Los Angeles. She mentioned this last week."

"Of course." Maria's expression remained unchanged, but I noticed a slight alteration in her stance and a slight tensing around her eyes. Having worked with us for a considerable time, she was adept at sensing the atmosphere of our household, and today, as was often the case, it was rather reserved.

I carried my coffee to the kitchen island. It was a large piece of black granite, big enough for twelve people, but usually only one person sat there. Hailey and I never ate our meals together.

Even though we lived together in a sprawling six-thousand-square-foot home in a pricey California location, we hardly spent any time doing things together.

By the age of forty-one, I had transformed Edison Holdings from the simple bookkeeping records of Henderson Hardware into a wide-ranging business empire that included real estate, technology investments, and commercial development.

My name began showing up on buildings I had never been to and in boardrooms I no longer attended in person. I possessed more wealth than the sixteen-year-old girl living in poverty could have ever dreamed of, even in her wildest imaginings.

And I had a daughter who looked at me like I was a business associate she was contractually obligated to tolerate.

Hailey was now twenty-five years old. Naturally, she was beautiful, having inherited Ethan's bone structure and my dark hair. This combination made people notice her everywhere she went.

She had also inherited my stubbornness and his talent for avoiding emotions. She worked as an insurance underwriter at a medium-sized firm in the city, a job that paid fairly well and was completely unrelated to my connections.

She had made her intentions clear during her application process. "I want to earn it, Mom," she'd said. "I don't want your name to create opportunities for me." I had been proud of her for that. Or at least, I think I was. It's often difficult to distinguish between genuine pride and the sting of feeling rejected.

Our lives in this house were a delicate balance of staying out of each other's way. She occupied the east wing, and I was in the west. When we crossed paths in the hallways, we'd exchange polite nods. Our conversations about household costs were as formal as attorneys hammering out a truce.

We didn't argue. Arguing would mean we cared, and caring would mean we were vulnerable, and vulnerability was something neither of us could afford.

Yet, despite everything, she remained my daughter. She was still the infant I'd cradled under that lamp's glow, the little one I'd nourished with bottles while poring over accounting textbooks by flashlight, and the young woman I'd seen finish high school, delivering a valedictorian address that acknowledged everyone but me.

After finishing my coffee, I headed upstairs. Hailey's bedroom door was open, and her bed was perfectly made, as usual. She had already left, just like every other day, without a word. However, something colorful on her pillow grabbed my attention.

I entered the room, which was unusual for me. It had her scent—vanilla mixed with a sharper, possibly citrus, fragrance. The space was tidy and orderly, with everything perfectly arranged. Hailey managed her surroundings just as she managed every other part of her life: with strict and absolute control.

Resting on her pillow was a wool blanket. It was a pale yellow color, its edges frayed, and a pattern of tiny ducks, now faded, was barely visible. I had knitted it during my initial winter at the Hendersons', my fingers awkward from the cold and anticipation, while Hailey was asleep in a dresser drawer next to the wood-burning stove.

As a child, she took it everywhere with her, and she even slept with it until she turned twelve.

She had then packed it away, feeling ashamed because it was so poor, and I had thought it was gone.

But there it was. She had taken it out and slept with it last night. I picked it up. The wool felt soft from decades of washing, and the ducks were barely visible. Bringing it close to my face, I inhaled, and for a fleeting moment, instead of vanilla and citrus, I caught the scent of lavender and aged wood – Edna's home, the very spot where it all originated.

"Mom?"

I turned around to see Hailey in the doorway. She held her suitcase in one hand and her car keys in the other. She was dressed in a charcoal blazer and tailored slacks, with her hair pulled back in a tight bun that made her appear older than her twenty-five years. She looked professional and distant.

Lowering the blanket, I remarked, "I believed you had already departed."

"I forgot my charger." Her eyes glanced at the blanket I was holding before looking away. A slight blush spread across her cheeks as she added, "I was cold last night."

"Of course."

A tense, uncomfortable silence hung between us, feeling both stretchy and dangerous. I felt the urge to speak. I recall making that. I remember each and every stitch. I recall praying over this, wishing you would always feel warm, always be secure, and always recognize that you were loved, even when I struggled to express it.

"Los Angeles," I replied. "The conference. It's about... insurance, right?"

"It's a risk management symposium, lasting three days." She shifted her stance. "I should probably leave now because of the traffic."

“Yes, of course. Drive safely.” She nodded, turned, and then halted. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath that appeared to be difficult for her. When she faced me again, her expression had become gentle in a way I hadn't witnessed in years.

"Thank you," she said. "For... the blanket. I know it probably seems silly, a grown woman with a baby blanket."

"It's not foolish at all."

"I just..." She paused, shaking her head. "Forget it. I'll see you on Sunday."

She took three quick steps across the room, gave my cheek a kiss—so light a touch of her lips that I might have thought I imagined it—and left before I could even respond.

I remained standing, my hand touching my cheek, where I could still feel the lingering warmth of my daughter's kiss even after the sound of her car disappeared down the driveway.

I walked over to the window and watched her silver sedan disappear as it rounded the bend of the coastal road. I kept standing there until I could no longer see her taillights, until the only thing moving was the gardener's shears.

It had been months since we last touched. I wasn't sure if this contact marked a new start or a final farewell.