Chapter 3

Steam was still rising from May's breakfast stand at the mouth of the alley.

I bought a box of donuts and sat on a plastic stool, eating quietly.

My phone showed more than ten missed calls.

Some of them were from Emma Sullivan, Andrew's mother. The others were from Andrew's relatives and a few ladies who used to hover around me.

I ignored them all.

Then, a call from an unknown number came in.

I picked up.

The person on the other end spoke politely, "Is this Ms. Grace Miller? This is Greenfield Arts Center. We're calling to confirm if you'll be able to attend the intangible cultural heritage exhibition in person next week."

I looked at the last donut in my box. "Sure," I said.

"That's wonderful. Your piece, Moonlit Blossoms, has been chosen as the main exhibit. There's going to be a ton of media coverage."

I held my phone, my gaze falling on the back of my hand. There were tiny needle pricks there.

Back when Andrew saw them, he'd frown and say, "Stop messing with that stuff. It looks ugly."

Now, someone was seeing me as an artist.

"No need to make a big deal out of it," I added.

The caller laughed. "But everyone wants to meet the young embroiderer who disappeared for three years."

I paused for a moment.

"Then let them see me," I said.

After hanging up, I slid the box back to May.

May asked, "Grace, are you full?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm full."

She handed me an egg. "Take it. You just got divorced. Gotta keep your strength up."

I smiled and took it. "Thanks, May."

The next week, I was so busy I barely had time to breathe.

Willow Embroidery Studio was back in business.

I swept away the dust, replaced the old fabric with new ones, and put up fresh lights at the door.

I sorted through all the embroidery designs I'd saved up over the past three years.

There were clouds, flowers, old alleyways, and windows in the rain.

And there was an embroidery of a man's back.

That was Andrew.

I stared at it for a couple of seconds, then pulled it from the stack and tossed it into the paper bin.

Thomas saw and sighed. "You sure you want to throw that away?"

I picked up another design. "Total waste of thread on him."

Thomas laughed so hard he slapped the table. "Finally, you're thinking straight."

On the seventh morning, Emma showed up at my door.

She walked in, pinching her nose with disdain.

"Grace, is this where you live now?" she asked.

I was busy taking measurements for a customer's dress.

The customer was Natalie Evans, the owner of the café at the end of the alley. She was famously quick-tempered.

As soon as she heard Emma's words, she spun around and snapped, "What's so bad about this place? The tiles under your feet are older than you are. Who are you to judge?"

Emma's face darkened. "I'm talking to my daughter-in-law. Why are you butting in?"

I set down the measuring tape. "It's your ex-daughter-in-law."

Emma was taken aback. "You really dared to get divorced?"

I said calmly, "I've already got the certificate."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Grace, I know you're upset. Andrew's simply too sentimental. Vivian just got back, so of course he's taking care of her. As his wife, how can you be so unreasonable?"

I looked at her.

She was like this three years ago, too.

Back then, she told me Andrew was busy, so I needed to be understanding.

She said the Sullivan family had all these rules, so I had to be understanding.

She said it was normal for men to go out drinking and entertaining, and that I should be understanding.

I spent three years being "understanding," and all it got me was a spot in the storage room.

I asked, "Emma, are you here to apologize for your son, or to make sure I step aside for Vivian with a little more grace?"

Emma's face fell. "What's with that attitude?"

"My attitude is, I'm not doing your clothes anymore. Please leave," I said.

Emma was stunned. "What clothes?"

Natalie scoffed, "You seriously don't know? Grace fixed the hidden pattern on the cuffs of that short jacket you're wearing. You used to show it off everywhere, saying people always praised you for it."

Emma looked down at her own clothes.

She'd tossed me this jacket before an important family dinner last year.

The original shoulder line was off, made her look slouched and dull.

I spent two nights fixing it, my eyes sore from staying up late.

When she wore it out and got compliments, she took all the credit, saying it was her own sense of style.

She never once mentioned me.

Emma's face flickered between embarrassment and anger. "Grace, don't throw these small favors in my face."

I smiled. "These weren't some small favors."

I grabbed a ledger from the drawer.

"Over the past three years, you had me fix up twenty-seven pieces of clothing, patch nine shawls, and make thirteen festival dresses for your relatives. I never asked for a dime for materials, labor, or those last-minute orders," I said.

I flipped straight to the last page. "But I'm charging now."

Emma's eyes widened. "You're really going to charge me for those things?"

"What else do you expect?" I slid the bill across the table. "You said those were small favors, right? So paying for them shouldn't matter to you."

Natalie leaned over to take a look. "Wow, only 30 thousand dollars? She's getting off easy."

Emma's hands were trembling with rage. "Grace, don't regret this. The Sullivan family isn't a place you can come and go as you please."

I slipped the bill into an envelope.

"Don't worry," I said, looking up at her. "Even if I pass by, I'll go out of my way to avoid your place."