Grant cleared his throat. “We can give you time,” he offered, looking at Miranda. “If you want a moment—”
“No,” Miranda said, wiping her face. “I need to do this now. If I don’t, I’ll chicken out.”
She looked around the room—my room, the small room where I’d folded so many versions of myself into “mom” even though I never had one.
“I’ll pack,” I said softly, because I didn’t know what else to do with my love except turn it into action.
Miranda shook her head quickly. “No. I meant… my things,” she said, and her voice cracked into a sob. “I meant I need to pack my things.”
I stared at her.
She stepped forward then—fully, finally—and took my hand. Her fingers were warm, trembling.
“I said it wrong,” she whispered. “I was so angry. I rehearsed it like a speech, and it came out like a knife.”
My breath hitched. “Miranda…”
“I don’t want you to leave,” she said, crying openly now. “I just need to go. For a while. And I need you to let me without making me feel like I’m abandoning you.”
The irony of that—of my orphan heart being asked not to feel abandoned—nearly crushed me.
But I squeezed her hand. “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. I can do that.”
She fell into my arms the way she used to when she was little—hard, desperate, like gravity had finally won.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
I held her tightly. “I love you,” I whispered into her hair. “I love you enough to let you grow.”
Behind her, Grant stood still, eyes wet, like he was witnessing a miracle he didn’t deserve.
Two hours later, we were in the living room with boxes and suitcases.
