Page 76 of The Maine Event

They hang on every word, giggling when I do the accents and gasping at the cliffhangers. By the end, Anna’s head is on my shoulder and Lily’s hand is wrapped around my pinky like it’s her anchor to the waking world.

When I close the book, neither one of them makes a move. They’re blinking slowly, drifting.

“Will you be here in the morning?” Lily asks, half-asleep.

“Yeah, sweet pea,” I whisper. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”

Anna, already snuggled into her blanket cocoon, sighs in contentment. “And you’ll make pancakes?”

“If you let me sleep past six,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

Lily giggles faintly. “No promises.”

I stay a little while longer, watching their little chests rise and fall, their lashes fluttering gently against soft cheeks. There’s something grounding about it—this quiet, this simplicity. It’s not just comforting, it’s… healing. Like some tiny part of me is rethreading itself, just by being here.

Eventually, I tiptoe out, pulling the door closed with a soft click. Downstairs, Claire is curled up with a blanket and Richard’s flicking through TV channels like it’s a sport.

“Bedtime success?” she asks.

“Two out of two asleep. I expect a trophy.”

She hands me a cup of tea instead, and I accept it like it’s gold.

“Guest room’s all made up for you,” Richard says, not looking away from the screen.

“Thanks, really appreciate it.”

As I sit down beside my sister and sip my tea, the tension I didn’t even realize I was still carrying begins to melt away. There’s no urgent meeting tomorrow. No ticking clock. Just family. And, for the first time in a while, a night of sleep ahead that might actually feel like rest.

Later, after both Mom and Richard have retreated upstairs and the hum of the dishwasher fills the background, Claire and I are left alone on the sofa, legs tucked under us like teenagers during a sleepover. The house has gone still, save for the occasional creak of settling floorboards and the muffled cough from one of the girls.

Claire hands me a blanket and refills my tea without asking. She’s always been like that—quietly perceptive, a master of knowing when to prod and when to just… sit.

We sip in silence for a moment before she speaks.

“So,” she says softly, “is this a visit-visit or a I-might-move-into-Mom’s-basement visit?”

I chuckle, but it’s low and tired. “Somewhere in between.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s not ominous at all.”

I sigh, curling tighter under the blanket. “A visit-visit. I just needed to stop. Everything’s been moving so fast for so long… and suddenly, I didn’t want to chase it anymore.”

Claire reaches over, squeezing my hand. “You’re allowed to change your mind, Rach. Even now. Especially now.”

“I don’t even know what I want,” I say.

“Then maybe this is the part where you figure it out,” she says gently. “Not with a five-year plan or a Pinterest board. Just… by sitting still and listening to yourself for once.”

A lump forms in my throat. “That’s easier said than done.”

She shrugs. “Most good things are.”

For a while we sit in silence, the kind only sisters can share. Then she leans her head against mine.

“You’ll figure it out. And hey—worst case, sell the condo and move back here with us. I’ll make space in the garage for your shoe collection.”

I laugh, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “Thanks, Claire.”

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