Page 22 of The Blaze Between Us

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Tasha gestures toward the photos again. "Is that Ellie's mom? In the hiking photo?"

The question I've been expecting. I follow her gaze to the picture in question—Claire at Emerald Lake, smiling brightly at the camera, her blonde hair catching the sunlight. A memory from before the cancer, when we thought we had all the time in the world.

"Yes," I confirm, my voice steadier than I expect. "Claire. That was about two years before she got sick."

Tasha nods, "She was beautiful. Ellie has her smile."

"She does," I agree, feeling the familiar ache that accompanies these conversations. "Same laugh, too. Sometimes I hear Ellie in the other room and for just a split second..."

I trail off, surprised at myself for sharing something so personal. But Tasha doesn't look uncomfortable or pitying—just attentive, genuinely interested.

"Does that happen often?" she asks. "Those moments of... I don't know what to call them. Echo?"

"Less now than before," I admit, setting my fork down. "Time does what everyone says it will, eventually."

"Makes things easier?"

"Not easier, exactly. Different. The grief changes shape." I'm not sure why I'm telling her this—things I rarely discuss even with close friends. "It becomes something you carry rather than something that carries you."

Tasha sets her plate aside, her appetite apparently gone. "My mother died with a brain aneurysm—completely unexpected. She had a headache one morning and by that night..." She shakes her head. "The doctors said it was quick, that she didn't suffer, as if that was supposed to make it better somehow."

"People never know what to say," I offer, recognizing the frustration in her voice.

"No, they don't. And neither did my father." Her expression hardens slightly. "His solution was to crawl into a bottle and never really climb back out."

Her bitter tone is unmistakable, but beneath it lies a wound that has clearly never fully healed.

"That must have been incredibly difficult," I say, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. "Being fifteen and losing both parents at once, in different ways."

"That's exactly it," she says, looking surprised and grateful for the understanding. "Everyone focused on Mom dying, but no one seemed to notice that Dad vanished too, even though he was still physically there."

"What did you do?"

"What any self-respecting teenager would do," she says with a hint of dark humor. "First, I rebelled spectacularly. When that didn't get his attention, I went the opposite direction—became perfect. Perfect grades, perfect behavior, thinking maybe then he'd notice me."

"Did it work?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

"Not even a little." She runs a hand through her hair, "By the time I graduated high school, I'd accepted that the dad I knew was gone. I went to college on scholarships and worked the bar job to cover the rest. Became entirely self-sufficient because I had to be."

The matter-of-fact way she describes her abandonment makes my chest ache. I think of Ellie at fifteen and her vulnerability despite her bravery after Claire died. How desperately she needed me to be present, even when my own grief threatened to consume me.

"I'm sorry," I say, knowing the words are inadequate. "That's a heavy burden for anyone to carry, especially a child."

"It made me stronger," she says with a small shrug that doesn't quite hide the hurt beneath. "Independent."

"At what cost?" The question comes out before I can consider its implications.

Tasha looks up sharply, her eyes meeting mine with surprising intensity. "What do you mean?"

I could back down, steer us toward safer conversational waters. But something about the vulnerability she's shown deserves honesty in return.

"I mean that becoming strong because you have to isn't the same as becoming strong because you're supported in your growth," I explain. "One leaves scars, the other doesn't."

She's quiet for a long moment, considering my words. "Is that wisdom from your professional life or personal experience?"

"Both," I admit. "After Claire died, I threw myself into being strong for Ellie, into my work, into holding everything together. I didn't realize until years later how much that approach cost me."

"What did it cost you?" she asks softly.

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