The sky outside began to lighten, tinted with the thin gray of morning, and in Jill's chamber, the silence felt brittle, like glass, ready to break. Then, gently, something moved.
Jill's eyes widened slightly, and her heart trembled in her chest. She initially thought it was a dream that slipped between sleep and waking, with soft edges and surreal moments. Sharon stood at the foot of her bed, half-immersed in the early morning light, elegant, poised, and impeccably present.
She looked the same, but her presence was brighter and heavier, as if stitched together by longing. Her smile was modest and delicate, revealing nothing yet saying everything Jill needed to hear for months.
Jill sat up sharply, the blanket sliding behind her and tangling around her knees. Her throat tightened.
"Mom?" Her voice broke under the weight of disbelief. "Mom! "Is that you?"
Sharon maintained a constant smile that softened just slightly. "Good morning, sweetheart."
The words enveloped Jill like a warm blanket after a cold night. She threw off the covers and took three barefoot steps across the room, the floor biting at her skin as if it wished for her to remain in bed and dream.
Jill leaned against her mother, burying her face in her shoulder. She inhaled deeply. The scent was as usual: faint, distant, and grounded. It clung to her like a memory, a lullaby, like the quiet corners of their house where Sharon's absence had been felt for far too long.
"I missed you," Jill said quietly, as if something broken had finally spilled over.
"I missed you, too," Sharon said, carefully running her palm down Jill's back.
Jill leaned back just enough to glimpse her mother's face. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
"I took the day off," Sharon remarked, her tone light, almost playful. She loosened the scarf around her neck and set her bag gently on the side table.
"It has been a while since we had this mother-daughter time together." She glanced at Jill with a small, rare smile—a kind smile that didn't quite reach her eyes but still held a quiet sincerity.
"We have the whole of today to ourselves." Her voice softened, as if she were presenting something priceless. "It is just you and me. "No rules, no schedules." She leaned forward slightly, a hint of amusement flaring beneath her controlled demeanour.
"If you utter the place, I will take you there." Her eyes locked with Jill's, as if daring her to ask for anything, no matter how far.
Jill blinked. "Anywhere?"
"Anywhere?"
Sharon smiled, then tucked Jill's hair behind her ear. "Go take your bath," she murmured. I will meet you downstairs, in the dining room."
Jill nodded, her smile coming naturally for once. It felt like a window opening after a long, sleepless night.
As Sharon turned and walked away, Jill stood still in the center of her room, watching her leave. Then, she moved gently toward the bathroom.
Downstairs, the dining room glowed with a faint light. The room's corners remained in shade, and warm morning light poured across the polished table. The murmur of a distant kettle whispered from the kitchen, and in the middle of it all stood Anna, silently setting the table.
She moved with the focused precision of someone accustomed to being invisible—her fingers steady, her gaze lowered. A plate, fork, and folded napkin were neatly arranged on the table. She looked up as Sharon entered, but her expression was inscrutable.
Sharon's feet were silent, and her presence instantly commanded the area with ease. She paused by the table, looking at the clean setup, and nodded once.
"Anna," she said, calm and almost warm, "thank you."
Anna didn't look directly at her. "You're welcome," she said, her tone flat with courtesy, too perfect to be sincere.
A pause followed. It wasn't long, but it was long enough.
The air between them tightened as Sharon reached down, lifted a napkin, and straightened it with deliberation. She always moved like a dancer: measured, precise, and unhurried.
Anna turned away, adjusting a cup that did not need adjusting.
Neither of them spoke again.
The stairs creaked faintly beneath Jill's feet as she descended. She wore a jumper and jeans, her damp hair curling at the ends. She hesitated on the bottom step, her heart thudding—not with fear, but because she knew this morning was unlike any other.
Jill entered the dining room.
Sharon stood at the head of the table, straight-backed and graceful, as if she had always belonged in this position. Anna was beside the sideboard, her back turned, adjusting a bowl that had already been properly positioned.
Sharon turned first, her smile spreading like a candle flickering to life. "There she is," she whispered.
Jill's gaze moved across the table, where two places had already been set. The plates, glass cups, cutlery, and napkins were arranged neatly. The third seat awaited like an invitation.
"It smells good," Jill murmured, even though the room was quieter than fragrant and the food had not yet been spread out. Her voice was timid, uncertain of its place in the morning's script.
Anna glanced over her shoulder, briefly met Jill's eyes, then turned away again. "I'll bring the tea," she said.
Sharon did not respond to her. Instead, she reached for the back of Jill's chair and gently pulled it out. "Sit. Relax. "It's your day."
Jill paused, then sat down. The chair felt cold beneath her, making her feel like a visitor in someone else's home for a moment.
Sharon sat across from her, arms gently resting on the table, fingers intertwined. She gazed at Jill with soft yet focused eyes, as if she had memorized every new line in her daughter's face.
"You've changed more than I imagined," Sharon said.
"So have you," Jill replied.
A pause.
"It's been three months; I hardly recognise you at first," Sharon said with a hint of astonishment.
Then both of them smiled, almost at the same time.
Anna returned with a tray—the teapot steaming, a small bowl of honey, a loaf of sliced bread, and lemon slices arranged in a perfect circle. She carefully set it down, then stepped aside without a word. Her posture was straight, her presence silent but palpable.
Sharon poured the tea expertly and remarked, "You still like lemon?" without looking up.
Jill nodded.
"I remember."
She offered Jill a cup, the warm porcelain grounding against her fingers. Jill carefully drank, then set it down, watching the steam swirl and swell between them as if they were breathing.
Anna remained standing.
"Join us, Anna," Sharon said suddenly.
Anna blinked. "I should—there's still breakfast—"
"It can wait," Sharon said.
Jill looked at Anna, expecting her to push back, but she moved slowly toward the table, rigid in her movements. She sat in the third seat; the triangle was now complete.
"So, how's Dad?" Jill asked, trying to sound casual but struggling to hide the hesitation in her voice.
"He's still in Germany," Sharon replied, her gaze drifting toward the window. "And will be leaving for Belgium very soon. He should return to the country by the end of next month."
"Hmm," Jill murmured.
Sharon took another sip of tea while holding a slice of bread, her attention fixed on Jill. Interest shimmered in her eyes, a measure of something just out of reach.
"You've changed," she said again, her voice light but with a purposeful pause between the words.
Jill looked up, caught mid-sip. "Changed?"
Sharon tilted her head slightly, as if admiring a painting. "You appear more soft-bodied. In your face. Around your shoulders, too. There's a tenderness that wasn't present before. It suits you."
Sharon turned to Anna, who was quietly eating a piece of bread.
"Looks like you've been keeping her well-fed, Anna. Or have you been sneaking a little extra butter into her meals?" Sharon asked.
Jill blinked, her smile both spontaneous and awkward. "You think I've put on weight?"
Sharon chuckled elegantly and briefly. "Don't become defensive, sweetie. This is not a terrible thing. You look... healthier. And your skin is shining. "There's something brighter about you.'"
She allowed the final segment to linger in the air for just the right amount of time.
Anna sat quietly beside them, shifting in her seat yet staying silent.
Jill furrowed her brow and set her teacup down slowly. "I didn't do anything unusual. Just the same as always."
"Mmm." Sharon leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Funny. Sometimes change happens when you're not even paying attention. A shift here, a ripple there. Then suddenly, you wake up and you're... someone new."
Jill didn't respond immediately. Her hands were carefully folded in her lap, but she could feel her pulse beating beneath her skin. The complement had a strange shape—round and soft on the outside but sharp at the center.
She cast a glance at Anna, as if seeking support, but Anna averted her gaze.
"You've been sleeping more?" Sharon asked.
Jill hesitated. "I guess. Sometimes."
"Dreaming?"
Jill's throat clenched. "Sometimes," she repeated quietly.
Another pause extended like a shadow on the floor.
Sharon moved forward slightly, the light catching the edge of her cheekbones. Her smile faded into a more neutral, almost absent expression, as if she were contemplating Jill's skin.
In a joking tone, she added, "Tell me something, Jill." "You're still following the rules I gave you?"
Jill blinked. "What rules?"
Sharon sipped her tea and watched her from the rim. "The key ones. About men. Regarding how they look at you. What they want. "What not to give them?"
Jill's stomach tightened. She gazed at her mother, uncertain whether to laugh or sneer.
"I remember," Sharon continued, "telling you when you were younger— 'don't let them touch you unless you know exactly what they'll take.'"
"I was twelve," Jill said, her voice quiet and calm.
"Yes. That's when girls start forgetting the difference between wanting to be seen and wanting to disappear." Sharon tilted her head. "You haven't forgotten, have you?"
Jill glanced at her, warmth creeping up her neck. "Is this what you believe has changed in me? That I let someone touch me?"
Sharon did not answer. She simply grinned, slowly and deliberately. "I believe you are smart. "But even smart girls need reminders."
Jill leaned forward slightly. Her voice was soft yet laced with steel. "And what about you, Mom? Do you follow your own rules?"
The smile on Sharon's face faded.
Anna stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.
"I'll check on the eggs," she murmured, darting into the kitchen before anybody could stop her.
Jill didn't blink. "You disappear for months, barely call. You move through the house like it belongs to your ghosts, not us. And now you're here, asking if I've let someone touch me?"
Sharon maintained her gaze, unreadable.
"I think," Jill continued, "if you're going to ask me questions like that, you should be ready to answer a few of your own."
The air cracked softly, like ice sliding beneath one's feet.
Sharon paused for a moment. Then she sighed gently and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with theatrical poise. "You're sharper than I remember."
"I've had time to sharpen," Jill said.
Anna's footsteps returned softly on the tile. She reappeared in the doorway, holding a dish and wearing an expression that was unreadable. She paused, sensing the tension, before stepping inside.
"I brought the eggs," she said.
No one responded immediately.
Sharon finally turned toward her. "Thank you, Anna. Please, sit."
Anna hesitated before following her directions.
Jill picked up her tea again, her hands steady. The cup remained warm.
She sensed a subtle yet significant change. Her mother had not pushed further, but the lines had been drawn, and for once, Jill did not feel as if she was being cornered.