Evelyn POV
The house didn't feel loud when we returned.
It felt… careful.
Not fragile exactly, but aware of itself, the way a place becomes when it's holding something precious and doesn't want to drop it. Liora kicked off her shoes by the door and stretched, rolling her shoulders like she'd been carrying more than just the weight of the day.
I stepped inside behind her—and that was when I heard it.
The soft scrape of a broom against the floor.
I froze.
Liora's mother stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back loosely, sweeping with slow, deliberate movements. She looked steadier than the night before, but not fully well. There was a slight stiffness to her posture, the kind you only noticed when you cared enough to look closely.
"Ma," Liora said immediately, dropping her bag. "What are you doing out here?"
Her mother turned, startled, then smiled. A gentle, apologetic smile.
"I was just trying to help a little," she said. "I don't like sitting idle."
"You were kidnapped less than twenty-four hours ago," Liora replied flatly. "You are not sweeping anything."
Her mother chuckled softly. "I'm still alive."
"That's not the point."
Liora crossed the room in three quick steps and took the broom from her hands without asking. "You need rest. Doctor's orders. Mine too."
Her mother sighed, the sound full of fond resignation. "You've always been stubborn."
"I learned from you."
I stood there quietly, watching them, feeling like I was witnessing something intimate—something I wasn't sure I was allowed to touch.
Liora turned to me. "Back me up."
I nodded. "She's right. You should be resting."
Her mother looked at me properly then. Really looked.
"Oh," she said softly. "Evelyn?."
I swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
She smiled again. "You don't need to call me that. You can call me Aunty Grace."
Something in my chest tightened at the name.
Grace.
Liora guided her gently toward the bedroom. "You're going to lie down, and we're going to pretend you don't know where the cleaning supplies are."
"I know exactly where they are," her mother muttered.
"And you're not allowed near them."
When they returned, Liora glanced around the kitchen. The fridge. The pantry.
Then she frowned.
"We're low on groceries," she said. "Like… dangerously low."
Her mother waved a dismissive hand. "We can manage."
"No, we can't," Liora replied. She grabbed her car keys. "I'll run to the supermarket. Evelyn, stay here."
I nodded. "Of course."
"Don't let her escape," Liora added, pointing at her mother.
"I heard that," her mother said dryly.
Liora grinned, then was gone.
The door closed.
The house settled again.
I stood there, unsure what to do with my hands, my thoughts. Aunty Grace sat on the edge of the couch, adjusting the throw pillow beside her.
"You don't have to stand," she said gently. "Come sit."
I hesitated, then obeyed.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
She was the one who broke the silence.
"Thank you," she said.
I blinked. "For what?"
"For my daughter," she replied simply. "She told me what you did. How you thought clearly when she couldn't. How you didn't panic."
I shook my head. "Anyone would have done the same."
She turned to me, eyes steady. "Not everyone."
Her gaze was kind, but it felt like it could see too much.
"You don't talk about yourself much," she continued. "But you carry things in the way you sit. In the way you listen."
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
She leaned back slightly. "You remind me of someone."
"Who?" I asked quietly.
"Me," she said.
The word landed softly—and still managed to break something open.
I laughed once, a small sound, then stopped. My eyes burned.
"I don't think I've ever had anyone say that to me before," I admitted.
She nodded, as if that made sense. "You've learned to survive quietly."
The room felt suddenly too warm.
"I grew up thinking…," I began, then stopped. The words tangled. "I thought wanting more made me ungrateful."
Aunty Grace turned fully toward me now.
"Who taught you that?"
I pressed my lips together. "Life."
She shook her head. "People teach us that. Life just gives us the opportunity to believe it."
The tears came without warning.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
They simply spilled.
I covered my face instinctively, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
She didn't let me finish.
Her arms came around me gently, firmly, like she'd done this before. Like she knew exactly how much pressure to use.
I stiffened at first.
Then I melted.
I cried into her shoulder, silently at first, then harder. Years of swallowed feelings—birthdays ignored, affection rationed, praise never meant for me—poured out without needing words.
She stroked my hair slowly. "It's all right," she murmured. "You're safe."
No one had ever said that to me like it was a fact.
"I wanted a mother who looked at me," I whispered. "Just once. Like I mattered."
She held me tighter.
"You matter," she said. "You always did. You just weren't seen."
That hurt more than I expected.
And healed something too.
The door opened softly.
Liora stepped inside, grocery bags in her hands.
She froze.
Her eyes widened at the sight of us—me curled into her mother's arms, tears streaking my face. Her own face crumpled instantly.
"Hey," she said, voice breaking. "What… what happened?"
I pulled back slightly, mortified. "I—"
Liora dropped the bags.
They hit the floor with a dull thud.
She crossed the room and knelt in front of us, her eyes already wet. "Ma?"
Her mother reached out and cupped Liora's cheek with her free hand. "She needed a hug."
Liora swallowed hard. She looked at me. Really looked.
Then she laughed weakly through tears. "Of course she did."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "You know," she said softly, "I've always wanted a sister."
I let out a shaky breath.
Her voice trembled as she asked, half-joking, half-terrified—
"Can we share her?"
The room went quiet.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Aunty Grace smiled.
And I cried all over again.