Sam.

~~~

The taxi ride from the airport felt longer than I remembered, but I was too drained to notice much beyond the hum of the engine. I'd tipped the driver extra since he hesitated when I told him I needed to go outside the city, to New Rochelle. The extra cash worked its magic, though. His grumbling faded, and he even helped unload my bags when we finally pulled up.

As I stood at the edge of the stony pathway leading to Grandma's house, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The scent of roses mingled with the damp earth from a recent rainstorm, transporting me back to my childhood summers here. The house loomed ahead, its familiar silhouette against the evening sky. Technically, I wasn't in New York City, but I'd always preferred this quiet retreat over the suffocating atmosphere of my parents' apartment near Central Park.

Grandma's house was bigger than it used to be. Over the years, they'd remodeled, adding rooms that seemed to sprout like new branches on a tree. The yard, both front and back, was a wild symphony of flowering bushes, towering trees, and the occasional weed that Grandma pretended not to notice.

I dragged my bags toward the front yard, my eyes lingering on the house. It looked almost shadowy, though I could see the kitchen light glowing faintly through the window, casting a warm but solitary shine. Further ahead, the soft glow spilling from Michael's study caught my eye, reflecting faintly on the dew-soaked grass.

As much as I loved this house for its understated luxury, what always mattered most was how it felt—welcoming, like an old friend. I stepped onto the porch, kicking off my shoes at the door and leaving my bag in the foyer. The air inside smelled of pine cleaner and camomile, a combination that was uniquely Grandma's.

I followed the faint aroma of camomile tea to the study, guessing she'd be there. Sure enough, Grandma was in her usual spot, curled up in the big armchair. A steaming teacup rested on the small table beside her, and a book hid her face from view.

"Grandma?" I called softly, stepping closer.

She lowered the book, revealing her kind but slightly distant expression. "Melissa, my dear," she said, her voice as gentle as a sigh.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Grandma, it's me—Samantha," I corrected, scanning her face for clues to this unexpected lapse.

"Oh, yes, of course," she murmured, closing the book and placing a bookmark inside with deliberate care. Rising slowly, she came toward me, her cream-colored robe brushing the floor. Her thin, gray braid hung over one shoulder, and her faded green eyes seemed almost silver in the dim light.

"I didn't know you were coming," she said, pulling me into a warm hug. Her kiss landed on my cheek, soft but fleeting. "If I had, I would've been more prepared." Her smile wavered, a flicker of something unspoken behind it.

"I wanted to surprise you," I replied, though her confusion left a heavy pit in my stomach.

"Is Keith coming too?" she asked, looking me over like she could see straight through me. "You've gotten thinner. Are you eating properly? Especially in your condition."

"Grandma..." I trailed off, my concern rising. "Are you feeling alright? Why don't you sit down, and I'll get us more tea?"

She nodded, her frail hands brushing against the chair as she eased herself back into it. "Alright, my dear," she said, lifting her teacup to her lips.

Something was wrong. Her momentary confusion, the way she spoke—it wasn't like her. I needed answers, so I headed to the kitchen across the hall, my steps quickening as I heard soft jazz playing in the background.

Amber, the housekeeper, was wiping down the countertops, swaying her hips slightly to the music. Her camel-colored hair was slicked into a neat topknot, and her loose cardigan hung casually over black jeans. She hummed along with the tune, her voice just audible over the faint clatter of dishes.

When she saw me, her face lit up, creases around her eyes deepening as she smiled. "Miss Morris, what a nice surprise!" she said, pulling me into a brief but warm hug.

"Amber, what's going on with Grandma?" I asked, skipping any pleasantries. My patience was already worn thin.

Amber's smile faltered, replaced by a somber expression. "Yes, today's one of her worst days," she said softly, knitting her brows. "Mornings are usually better."

"What does that even mean?" I pressed, my voice rising.

She hesitated, then said the word I hadn't been prepared for. "Her Alzheimer's."

I froze. "Alzheimer's," I whispered, my voice barely audible. I sank into a nearby chair, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Amber stepped closer, placing her hand gently over mine. "I thought Mr. Richard told you. He promised he would."

I shook my head, anger bubbling beneath the shock. "I've been out of the country. And Dad and I... well, you know how things are between us." I rubbed my temples, the weight of it all pressing down on me. "I had to find out like this?"

Amber sighed, her expression apologetic. "Miss Rose didn't want to tell you over the phone. She said it was something you needed to hear in person. And your father..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I'm so sorry, Miss Morris."

I stood abruptly, heading for the stove. "I'll make more tea," I said firmly. "Then I'm going to talk to Grandma."

Amber waved me off as I reached for the kettle. "No, no. Stay with Miss Rose," she insisted, stepping closer and gently taking the kettle from my hand. "I'll make the tea and bring it to the study."

I nodded, grateful for her suggestion, and left the kitchen. Amber had worked for my grandparents for over a decade, becoming a pillar of support, especially after Michael's passing. When he left me to care for Rose, I'd raised Amber's salary and officially made her a live-in caretaker.

Amber had always kept me updated, calling twice a week to chat or share news about Rose. Or so I thought. My chest tightened as I realized she'd withheld the most important update of all. I'd asked countless times about Rose's health, worried because of her heart condition, but Amber had kept quiet about Alzheimer's.

The three of us sat together in the study, though the conversation felt heavy, like walking through fog. Rose's confusion stung the most. She kept calling me "Melissa" and spoke about Keith as if he were still alive. From her fragmented stories, I pieced together that she thought I was Uncle Keith's girlfriend.

By the time Amber gently reminded me it was time for Rose to rest, my heart felt raw. I helped her to her room, staying close as if my presence alone could ground her in reality. Afterward, I trudged back downstairs, grabbed my bag, and made my way to the second floor.

As I climbed the staircase, my gaze caught the framed photos lining the walls. Memories stared back at me, each one whispering of the life I'd left behind in New York. My fingers brushed over one of Tom and me—one from our graduation, another from Michael's birthday party. We looked happy in those photos, but not the kind of happiness that sparkled in my grandparents' or my parents' pictures. Their love had always seemed like a beacon of unity, a guide for what a relationship should be. Looking back now, I realized how toxic Tom and I had become.

The next morning began with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Amber woke me with a tray of food and coffee—a rare gesture. After devouring the meal, I lay in bed, scrolling through my phone and texting Ray. The calm was broken by a loud, willowy voice drifting upstairs.

I groaned and rolled onto my side, delaying the inevitable. It clicked then—Amber's breakfast delivery wasn't just thoughtful. It was strategic. She'd tipped off my mother about my return to New York. Jennifer was her favorite, after all, and this was her way of smoothing things over with me.

Dragging myself out of bed, I paused at the top of the stairs. My mother stood below, fussing with her short hair and admiring her reflection in the hallway mirror. She wore a sharp red suit paired with a black blouse and matching heels. Her makeup was impeccable, lips were painted the same bold red as her blazer. When she caught sight of me, her face split into a smile.

"Sweetheart!" she squealed, her voice as bright and polished as her appearance. She stretched her arms toward me like a schoolgirl seeing an old friend.

"Mom," I greeted flatly, descending the stairs with measured steps.

Jennifer tossed her hat onto a nearby chair and pulled me into a hug, planting a hurried kiss on my cheek. She pulled back and immediately seized my left hand, her sharp eyes scanning it with laser focus.

"Well, where is it?" she demanded, her tone laced with anticipation.

"Where's what?" I asked, tugging my hand free from her grip.

"The ring! The engagement ring," she clarified, gesturing dramatically.

I blinked at her, the realization dawning like a slow-moving storm. "What are you talking about?"

"Tom, sweetheart," she pressed, her voice tinged with exasperation. "Didn't he propose? I was sure he would've by now!"

Her words snapped the pieces into place. The wedding planning with Carol. Her wistful remarks about Tom's absence. The not-so-subtle hints about him becoming her son-in-law. I should've seen it coming, but my mind had been elsewhere—mostly on Ray.

"We need to talk," I said firmly, steering the conversation. "Let's go to the living room."

Mom nodded, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she headed down the hallway. "I'll take a martini, sweetheart," she called over her shoulder with a smile.

Her early-morning drinking habit hadn't changed, I noted grimly. I walked into the kitchen, where Amber was already mixing a martini with practiced ease.

I fixed her with a pointed stare. "You know, I could fire you for this."

Amber looked up and smirked, unbothered. "I know," she said with a playful wink. "But you won't."

She was right, of course, and we both knew it. I grabbed the coffee she'd brewed and left her to finish the martini.

Standing outside the living room, I took a deep breath. Pleasing my parents had always been a strange compulsion, one I'd only recently begun to unpack. Time alone—or at least away from them—had helped me see how much I'd let that need shape my life.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I stepped into the room and joined my mother on the couch. This wasn't going to be easy, but I was determined to say what needed to be said.

"You said you'd bring drinks," Mom said, arching a perfectly sculpted brow at me.

"Amber's handling it," I replied, smoothing my hands over the knees of my jeans. "Mom, we need to talk."

"Of course, sweetheart," she said, her tone breezy. "No need to worry. Carol and I will take care of everything. Just tell us the date." Her gaze flicked toward the doorway, as though waiting for someone to appear with answers.

I hesitated, bracing myself. "There won't be a wedding, Mom," I said softly, lowering my eyes to the floor.

Her expression faltered for a split second before she pulled herself together. "Don't do this to me," she said, a faint crack in her voice. Concern flickered across her face, but it vanished the moment Amber entered with the drinks. Mom took a martini glass, flashing Amber a knowing wink.

"Thank you," she said warmly, then turned back to me. "Have you already said no to Tom?"

The way she said it—light, almost amused—made me want to scream. "He didn't propose, Mom," I began, but her delighted laugh cut me off.

"I ruined the surprise!" She clapped her hands together as if this were cause for celebration. "I knew he'd propose in Los Angeles. He has the ring, after all." She sipped her martini with satisfaction. "So, act surprised when he does."

I stared at her, dumbfounded. "Mom," I started again, my voice firmer this time, "I don't want to marry Tom. I don't love him."

She froze mid-sip, her sharp hazel eyes locking onto me like a hawk. "Of course you do," she said finally, dismissing my words with a wave of her hand. "You've been in love with him for, what? Seven years? Eight?" She frowned, as though doing the math in her head. "All that sneaking around was so silly."

Her words hit me like a slap. My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"Oh, honey," she continued, smiling like she'd just solved a puzzle. "Your excuses for him being here in the mornings? Laughable. It was obvious you two were sleeping together." She popped an olive off a wooden stick, her lipstick unscathed. "You're not teenagers anymore, Samantha. It's time to grow up and settle down. I was married at your age, you know."

I clenched my fists, struggling to process her words. She'd known about Tom and me this whole time? She'd been waiting—expecting—this wedding?

Without thinking, I blurted, "I have a boyfriend."

Mom's martini froze halfway to her mouth. "Not Tom?" she asked, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

"No, not Tom," I said, the words rushing out. "His name is Raymond."

Her eyes narrowed. "Is it serious?"

"Yes, Mom," I said, nodding.

"Does Tom know?" she asked, her gaze boring into me.

"I told him when he visited," I replied, picking up my coffee for something to do with my hands.

Mom's face crumpled, and a single tear slid down her cheek. "My poor boy," she murmured, shaking her head. "You broke his heart."

My patience snapped. "He's not your son!" I shouted the words echoing in the room.

"You don't need to be rude, honey," she scolded, dabbing at her eyes. "Tom loves you. He'll take you back."

"Are you even hearing yourself?" I asked, standing up, anger surging through me.

"My hearing is just fine, thank you," she said, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Oh, really?" I shot back. "Then hear this: Tom and I are over. Forget the wedding. Forget me being Mrs. Wade. I don't love him. Did you hear that?"

Mom set her glass down and stood, smoothing her tailored suit. "Calm down, Samantha," she said sharply. "I raised you better than this." She straightened her blazer and waved a hand as if dismissing my outburst. "Your father will want to talk to you about work."

"I'm not working for Dad," I snapped before I could stop myself.

"With Dad," she corrected, unfazed. "Maybe we can discuss this more over dinner next week?"

"We'll see," I said flatly, setting my cup down on the table.

She clapped her hands together. "Wonderful. Oh, by the way, we're leaving for Italy in two weeks. Graham is hosting an enormous event, and they invited us." Her smile was dazzling. "I assume you're not coming?"

"No, Mom," I replied, my voice calmer now. "I'll stay here with Grandma."

Her reaction surprised me. "Perfect," she said, her tone suddenly cheerful. "Then you can watch Alyssa."

"Great," I muttered, already dreading it. "Will you be back for the book signing?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, honey, no. Graham's party is far more important."

I forced a smile, though my chest ached. I should've been used to this by now. They'd missed my graduations, and my birthdays, and now, they were skipping my book signing—the first tangible proof of my accomplishments.

Amber reappeared with her quiet efficiency, and Mom immediately shifted the conversation to gossip. I left them in the living room and wandered outside, searching for a moment of peace.

Grandma was in the backyard, tending to her roses like she did every morning. She seemed more lucid today, her delicate hands carefully pruning the vibrant blooms. As she spoke to me about each flower, her voice steady and warm, I felt my mood begin to lift.