Devin Barron and Hannah Barron—those experts at pushing soft and hiding from hard—looked at each other and, surprisingly, backed down. They had never imagined that the sweet, honey-smiled Oakley Ponciano could bare her teeth like this.
Even Grace Barron stared, startled. She had never seen Oakley do anything quite like it.
Hazel Barron, though, was a powder keg—a spark away from detonation. She opened her mouth—then Hannah's hand closed around her wrist.
"What?" Hazel gaped, offended and baffled.
In every previous skirmish, Hannah had stood squarely at her side; Hazel had grown accustomed to it.
"Enough," Hannah snapped, impatience clouding her face like a fast weather change. For once, her tone had an edge.
Hazel had never stumbled like this in front of Grace. Spoiled from the start, she considered herself the lead actress in this family's play. Her mother's rebuke sent a hot, prickling rage up her scalp. "You're scolding me?"
Hannah's eyes turned cold—no words, only a look, sharp as a tucked-away blade.
Hazel, unaccustomed to no, bristled on. She turned her ire back on Oakley. "You're the rude one. Who told you you could just—"
Oakley smiled. "You, policing manners? That's rich. What—because my face isn't as big as yours?"
Hazel's softest bruise was always her looks. All her life she had envied Grace's face; at home she might be praised, but outside people's compliments slid to her sister, and boys had even courted Hazel just to pass notes to Grace. Someone had once joked behind her back that her face looked like a flying pita. She had never forgiven the world for it.
Oakley hadn't meant to attack her looks—only her nerve. Hazel flushed anyway, clutching her cheeks. "You—are you sick?"
Oakley clicked her tongue. "Not as sick as you. Did the doctor give you anything for it?"
Pure mockery, clean to the bone.
Hazel had a brain without a bridge. Logic deserted her; rage pooled hot in her chest until her face went cherry-red.
Hannah couldn't bear it. A mother like her couldn't watch her daughter be held under. "Oakley," she said tightly, "aren't you going too far? Why are you sparring with a girl? Isn't there enough to deal with?"
Oakley turned, unmoved. "A girl at twenty? Keep calling her that if it helps you sleep. And by the way—those tricks don't work on me. Save them."
Grace had been trained on those tactics since childhood; Oakley was not. She heard the false sweetness and felt her hackles rise. She was not easy prey.
Hannah's face went blotchy. "What tricks? Tell me—what tricks? I thought you were decent. Was I wrong?"
Grace's patience snapped. She closed her eyes for a breath. "Mom."
"What?" Hannah shot back.
Grace's gaze was as flat as still water, unreadable. "Enough."
"You—" Hannah sputtered, nearly speechless. "Got yourself a wife and forgot your mother, is that it?"
"Never," Grace said. "But if you want what's best for Hazel, stop indulging her. It doesn't help."
Hannah's eyes rounded. The obedient daughter had come home married and was now… teaching her how to parent? A cold ripple of panic slid through her. Control was shifting, and not toward her.
Oakley, bored with their family theater, slipped her arm through Grace's and said, almost cheerfully, "So—where's Grandma? Weren't we going to eat?"
Diagnosis complete: the trio—Devin, Hannah, Hazel—were the deluxe edition of foolish. Oakley refused to spend another minute's energy on them. She wanted to meet the grandmother Grace had spoken of with real warmth.
Hannah's temple jumped. Words failed. In all her life she had never met anyone like Oakley.
"Upstairs," Grace said quietly.
"Great. Let's go," Oakley replied, all breeze again, as if she hadn't been wielding knives a moment ago.
They left without further ceremony, turning toward the staircase.
The three downstairs stood stunned beneath the chandelier—silence pressed over the opulent room like a heavy velvet curtain, with something faintly chilling underneath.
After a long beat, Hazel rounded on Hannah. "Mom, what is she?"
Devin scowled. "Who knows. That one's no easy daughter-in-law."
Any normal person would at least pretend in front of the in-laws. This one respected no stage directions whatsoever—charging through like a bull in a shop full of china.
"A shrew," Hannah hissed, rubbing at her throbbing temple. "An absolute shrew. My head—honestly—"
A new bride had arrived and delivered a clean, neat slap. Hannah had no script for countering it. So much for Grace's "sweet little lamb."
—
On the staircase, Oakley and Grace climbed the last glossy step to the second floor.
Anger still flickered in Oakley like heat lightning. "I'm furious."
"Still on that?" Grace asked gently.
"Shouldn't I be?" Oakley's voice was incredulous. "You're a saint. If it were me, I'd be out of this house in sixty seconds."
Grace studied the immaculate runner underfoot. "That's why I moved out as soon as I could."
If not for Grandma, there was little to come home for. Daily contact with her parents left her emptier, never nourished.
She hesitated. "This will make it hard to fix things with them."
"Then let it be hard. I don't care," Oakley said, hands on hips. "I'm here to live with you, not them. They're not my problem."
She didn't keep grudges, not really; she could dislike someone in an afternoon and make peace by night if there'd been no mortal sin. But disrespect was her line. Cross it and even a king would get a shrug.
Her face was soft, but her eyes had turned to stamped metal. She would not swallow this.
Grace worried the emotion would carry Oakley too far, and smoothed a hand down her arm. "You're right. Okay. Breathe."
"I'm not angry for me," Oakley muttered. "I'm angry for you."
Her loyalties were inward and absolute. Even if Grace had been wrong, Oakley would have picked up a sword and stepped forward.
She shook out her hands. "Forget it."
Grace stopped for a second, watching the small, fierce figure walking ahead of her, and felt a slow warmth rise. As if a trickle of water had found its way back into a field and the cracked dirt had started to soften.
They knocked and slipped into Grandma's room just as the housekeeper finished buttoning the old woman's cardigan.
The room's palette was heavier than the rest of the house—woods and small florals, a tidy country calm. Winter light filtered through lace, laying a tender pallor across Grandma's cloud-white hair. The gentleness somehow made the loneliness more pronounced.
Age had narrowed the world. Food had rules now. Movement had rules. Company had a schedule. Most days were spent at home, careful not to trouble anyone with jobs and lives.
Grace's heart turned to velvet without her noticing.
"Grandma!" Oakley said from the doorway, bright and respectful.
Grandma turned, squinting slightly. "And this is…?"
Grace had sent photos before, but pictures are thin, and memory, lately, thinner.
Grace took Oakley's hand and brought her close. "Grandma, this is Oakley."
"Oh—Oakley!" Grandma's face opened. "You're both back?"
Oakley smiled and led Grace to sit beside her. "We are."
Grandma looked Oakley over, pleased. "Very pretty."
Age had carved her—skin like bark, a soft haze over her gaze—and yet the spirit in her was clean and serene as a chapel at dawn.
Oakley opened a bag and drew out two knit caps, one black, one gray. "I brought you hats. Cashmere—soft and warm."
Grandma touched them and sighed happily. "Soft. Lovely."
"May I?" Oakley lifted a cap.
"Yes."
It fit just right. It even gave Grandma a little city chic.
"Now I won't fear the wind," Grandma laughed, eyes crescenting.
Oakley laughed with her.
After a few warm exchanges, Grandma reached for Grace and, without a word, squeezed her arm down its length—an old ritual, a quiet scan.
Then: "My girl… you haven't been eating properly, have you?"
"I have," Grace said, taking her hand and sitting close.
"Then you're overworking." Grandma stroked Grace's cheek. "Work never ends. Your body matters more."
Years had stretched out behind them—Grace had grown from knee-high to this tall woman—and still Grandma's eyes held her as if nothing had changed. A child, forever a child.
Only here could Grace let the mask fall. Even her smile warmed, unarmored.
Oakley watched and realized she had never seen Grace like this—soft to the core, no shell at all.
She wanted this for Grace. Always.
"I know," Grace said. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, I'm fine," Grandma said lightly. "Only lately my mind… slows. Faces and facts slip off me. Last week I even mistook your cousin—what a scene. I hope she didn't mind. Useless old woman."
Grace looked at the loose, spot-dusted skin on the familiar hand, into those innocent, clouded eyes, and something stung behind her nose.
The doctor's words came back like a cold draft. Dementia. A narrowing tunnel. Fewer names, fewer anchors. Later, even the body would begin to forget itself.
As if age were a bell that called every ailment home.
"Oh!" Grandma brightened and tapped Grace's nose with a finger. "I dried lots of beef for you. Your favorite. It's in jars. Take it tomorrow and share it with Oakley."
Grace swallowed against the ache. Even now—old, unsteady—Grandma thought first of what might make her granddaughter smile. How could a heart not rise and fall?
She nodded. "I will. I'll finish every bite."
"Good girl," Grandma said, eyes narrowing into gleeful crescents.
Grace leaned in and folded Grandma into a hug.
"What is it?" Grandma patted her back, cheerful as ever.
"Nothing," Grace said, voice colored by a thin thread of tears. "Just wanted to hold you."
Oakley blinked hard, mouth pressed tight. The corners of her eyes burnt sweet.
—
They brought Grandma down between them. The white dining table bloomed with dishes—hotel-pretty and fragrant, the kind of spread that made your mouth water without your permission.
Hazel was mid-scroll, but put the phone down when Grandma appeared. "Grandma."
"Ah," Grandma smiled. "You're home too, sweetheart?"
"Mm," Hazel said, then ran out of lines. Grandma liked to talk about life; Hazel preferred being applauded. The fit had never been easy.
Grandma let it go.
Devin and Hannah took their seats with the caution of people hiding a bruise. No one mentioned the earlier clash; surfaces were polished and bright.
Halfway through the meal, the clink and hush of forks and voices paused as Grandma asked, "So—when will you hold the wedding?"
Grace and Oakley glanced at each other.
They hadn't gotten that far.
"When would you like?" Grace asked, turning to Oakley.
Oakley blew on her soup, watching the ripples. "I'm easy."
"Next year?" Grace offered.
This year was nearly gone. Weddings took time, and she didn't want to wait long. She wanted Grandma to see.
"Next year is perfect," Oakley said, already picturing the dress.
"How lovely," Grandma murmured, contentment smoothing her face.
A little later Grandma sighed, "I heard they opened a food street nearby. So lively! Shame it's too cold—I don't dare go out. Otherwise I'd go with you."
When Grace was little, Grandma had taken her everywhere; they were more friends than elder and child. Those bright snapshots still flickered in Grace's mind.
"We'll go in spring," Grace said. "Together."
"Food street?" Oakley perked up. "Lots of stalls?"
Hannah, still nettled but unwilling to be petty before the elder, answered, "Quite a few. Good variety."
"Sounds fun," Oakley said, tugging Grace's sleeve. "Let's go tonight?"
"Okay," Grace said, biting a tofu meatball in half. "Which street was it again?"
"Near your old middle school," Hannah said evenly. "On Brightwater Street."
"Got it," Grace said, finishing the bite.
The word "middle school" snagged on Oakley's curiosity. She rarely dug into anyone's past. Tonight, she wanted to know. Wanted to see the places that made Grace.
She nudged Grace with her elbow. "Take me tomorrow? Show me where you studied. And the places you played."
Grace opened her mouth to say yes when her phone buzzed. A message. She glanced down.
From an old friend—Evelyn Luke. Back in town? Free this afternoon? Let's go for a walk.
Grace didn't answer yet. She turned to Oakley. "A friend from school asked if I'm free. Do you want to come?"
Oakley paused with her chopsticks at her lips. "Who?"
"A friend from middle school," Grace said truthfully.
"Sure," Oakley smiled. She wanted to meet Grace's people. They were married; circles should overlap.
Casually, she added, "Were you close? Still in touch?"
Grace hadn't answered when Hazel's chopsticks slid deep into a plate of stir-fried tripe. She picked every sliver of celery aside with exaggerated distaste and, without looking up, said sweetly, "Oh, they were close. Like, share-the-same-pants close. My sister did so much crazy stuff for Evelyn. Evelyn even said she wanted to be with my sister forever. Eyes shining and everything."
Oakley's teeth were mid-bite on a perfect slice of abalone when Hazel said it. The bite hovered.
Then it stopped.