Page 74 of The Maine Event

The games don’t last too long before the girls want to move on to the next thing. Mom convinces them to do some coloring, and earns some whoops and cheers when she reveals a new pack of crayons and a fairy coloring book for each.

When Mom has settled Lily and Anna in the kitchen, she comes and joins us. She sits down heavily on the couch. As much as she loves seeing her granddaughters, it takes it out of her.

“Listen, there’s something I need to tell you,” I begin, my voice wavering slightly.

Claire and Mom have concern etched on their faces, and I hurry to reassure them.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise. It’s just… I quit my job at Channing Gabriel.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before they both ask the inevitable, “What?” “When?” and “Why?” My mom reaches across the table to grasp my hand, her brow furrowed with worry.

“Quit? Just like that? But, honey, you loved your job. You worked so hard to get that position.”

I nod, swallowing the rising tide of guilt. “Yeah, I did. And I thought I loved it. But… it doesn’t feel the same anymore. I felt stuck. Miserable, actually.”

Claire tilts her head, studying me. “What happened? I thought Channing Gabriel was your dream gig.”

“It was,” I say, trying to put words to the knot in my chest. “I just… couldn’t do it anymore. I needed to stop.”

Mom exchanges a look with Claire before reaching for my hand, and squeezing it gently. “I’ve been saying for years that you’ll work yourself into an early grave. Even when you were little—you’d get so upset if you didn’t get a perfect score on a test or mess up your homework. You remember that time you tried to play the piano piece from that school recital, and you wouldn’t leave the piano for hours?”

Claire laughs softly. “God, I remember that. Mom practically had to drag you away from it. You were convinced that one wrong note meant you were a failure.”

I force a smile. “Yeah, well, not much has changed, apparently.”

Mom squeezes my hand again, her eyes soft. “Honey, I know you always wanted to make something of yourself, and I couldn’t be prouder of everything you’ve achieved. But you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to us. Not to your bosses. Not even to yourself. Sometimes it’s okay to just… be.”

I feel the lump in my throat swelling, my chest tight with emotion. “It’s not just about work. It’s… everything. I don’t even know what I want anymore. I thought climbing the ladder was the answer. But now that I’m at the top, and I just feel… empty.”

Claire rests a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay to feel lost sometimes. Maybe this break is exactly what you need. Figure out what makes you happy again, not just what looks good on paper.”

I nod, the words soaking into me like a balm. “I just don’t know where to start.”

Mom gives me a reassuring smile. “Start by giving yourself a little grace. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to want different things.”

I let out a shaky laugh, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “I’m just scared. What if I don’t figure it out? What if I never find something that makes me feel… enough?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Claire says firmly. “And who wouldn’t want to lie around all day while they figure it out?”

The heaviness in my chest loosens just a little, and I nod, grateful for the support. The girls squeal in delight at the table, before Lily comes running in, proudly holding up her masterpiece—a neon pink fairy with green wings.

“Look, Aunt Rachel!” she calls. “Isn’t she pretty?”

I smile, genuinely this time. “She’s gorgeous, Lil. You’ve got real talent.”

Claire leans closer, dropping her voice. “You know, I haven’t seen you this relaxed in ages. Maybe that’s a sign.”

I glance at her, considering the idea. “Maybe. It just feels nice to be… here.”

The front door opens with a familiar clunk, followed by the thud of work boots and the creak of a grocery bag being set down.

“Smells like chocolate milk and crayons in here,” Richard calls out, his voice warm and teasing. “Which means either I’ve walked into a crime scene, or my daughters are home.”

“In the living room,” Claire replies.

He rounds the corner, his high-vis vest still slung over one shoulder and smudges of dust on his forearm. When he sees me on the couch, one niece tucked into my side and the other sprawled across the rug with her coloring book, he stops short and breaks into a grin.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

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