Page 32 of Rise
Sylvia’s eyes softened, but she didn’t rush to reassure. “We almost did, once, a few years back. Wendy invited me over the week you were supposed to visit. Something came up last minute— she said you’d gotten called into a shift or to help with an event, maybe.”
Hazel’s stomach turned, low and quiet. She couldn’t place the memory, but only because there had been many instances that sounded just like that one.
“I’m glad to meet you now,” Sylvia added, and her tone made it sound like grace— not forgiveness, just truth.
Hazel nodded once and sat, her body folding down onto the edge of the armchair as if pulled there by something heavier than gravity.
Sylvia didn’t push. She sat across from her with ease, the steam from her own cup curling upward like breath. A comfortable silence settled between them and Hazel was grateful for it— grateful that not everyone tried to fill the quiet with apologies or too-earnest condolences. Sylvia seemed to understand something about grief that others didn’t, that it wasn’t always loud. That sometimes, it just hummed low in the background, like the soft tick of the clock on the wall or the groan of pipes as hot water travelled through them.
“She loved spending her evenings here,” Sylvia said at last, her gaze drifting toward the window and remaining rooted there. “She used to walk to the end of the driveway just to feel the sea air. Even in winter, if you can believe it. Used to say she wanted to leave the house in the mornings, instead— something about waking up her bones.”
Hazelsmiled faintly, her fingers tightening around the cup. “That sounds like her.”
“She told me once,” Sylvia said, tilting her head as if remembering the exact moment. “That you sometimes forget to take care of yourself because you’re too busy trying to make yourself small. Too busy trying not to get in the way.”
Hazel looked up, startled— not because it wasn’t true, but because itwas.Her grandmother used to say things like that all the time in passing, like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just cut through Hazel’s armour with a warm knife.
Sylvia reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a folded slip of paper, the edges softened by time. She set it on the coffee table between them. “She prepaid for a full year of classes at Northlight for you. Told me to wait until things had settled a little before I brought it by.” Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “Said if I came by too soon, you might be too overwhelmed to accept it.”
Hazel didn’t reach for the paper right away. She just stared at it, a strange tightness building behind her eyes. Her grandmother’s handwriting peeked out on one corner of the receipt, looping and familiar. A breadcrumb. Another quiet gesture left behind like a lighthouse blinking through fog, just enough to guide her back.
She didn’t know what to do with the softness of it, with the idea that someone had planned care into her life like it was something she deserved. Self-care skated too close tohelp, and help had always come with weight. With expectations. With the possibility of being a burden. With the possibility that just once she’d settled within the heaviness of it, the rug would be pulled out from beneath her, sending her sprawling to the floor. Alone.
Even now, with her grandmother gone, she could feel it— like the walls had been quietly moved inward around her, narrowing the path.
Within the fog, something else began to stir. Pressure, thin and pointed, settled against her chest. A sense of beingsteered,gently but unmistakably, by a woman no longer here to answer for it. She’d chosen to stay, yes. She’d opened the doors to the bakery, poured herself into the work, tried to root herself in the quiet rhythm of thisplace. But now she wondered if the choice had ever been entirely hers. If the path had already been swept clean and laid out in front of her like something sacred. Or strategic.
Why?The question cut through the fog with a sudden, sharp edge. Why had her grandmother done all of this— why build a life for Hazel she hadn’t asked for? Why believe so deeply that sheneededto be here?
Hazel blinked hard, jaw tight. The receipt stayed where Sylvia had left it, humming with significance. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or crumple it in her fist.
“She didn’t tell me,” Hazel said, her eyes on the paper, though her voice didn’t seem tethered to anything. She held the teacup in both hands, letting the warmth seep slowly into her fingers, her palms, as though she could absorb something steadier from it. “That she thought it might be soon.”
There was no judgment in Sylvia’s silence. Just a pause, like a space being held open, and then she nodded. “No, she didn’t. She wouldn’t have.”
Hazel hesitated. She wasn’t sure why she was asking, except that she needed to, now that someone was finallyhere—someone who’d been there, in those last days. “Did she tell you?”
Sylvia’s answer was slow, but sure. “She didn’t say it outright. But… I think she knew for a little while before.”
“She was always careful not to scare me,” Hazel murmured, giving her head a gentle shake. “Even when I was little. I think… if she said it out loud, it would make it real. And she never wanted to burden me with that.”
A memory surfaced, uninvited but vivid.
She was maybe ten or eleven, sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, building a lopsided puzzle while her mother stood by the window, pacing. At first, it had been good. Her mom had come home from the facility with her favourite snack in hand, her eyes clearer than Hazel had seen in months. The first few days had been warm and wonderful: her mother braided Hazel’s hair, sang along with the radio, cooked dinnerside by side with her grandmother, their voices gentle and lilting as they chatted.
But then, as always, something shifted. The brightness in her mother’s voice turned brittle. She started muttering to herself when she thought no one was listening, flinching at the telephone, unplugging the television.
Hazel remembered the crash of a vase shattering against the wall and the slam of a door, punctuated by her mother’s voice, rising with paranoia and fear that sounded more like fury.
“She didn’t want you to carry it,” Sylvia said, voice gentle, tugging Hazel back down to the moment, causing her to blink a few times to clear the past from her eyes. “That kind of knowing. It was already heavy enough for her.”
Hazel’s throat closed. She blinked again, eyes drifting over Sylvia’s shoulder to the fireplace, where the framed photos of her culinary school graduation still stood on either side of the mantle— one from each year, the chef’s coat boxy on her frame, her smile too wide for how exhausted she’d been. Her grandmother had framed them both. She used to straighten them each time she walked past, pressing a fingertip to the edge of the glass like it mattered.
“She was so proud of you,” Sylvia said, as if sensing exactly where her gaze had gone. “You know that, don’t you?”
Hazel nodded, but the gesture felt small. “Were you with her? At the end?”
Sylvia’s eyes softened. “I was. It was quiet and she passed peacefully, with no pain. She just… drifted. Like she was slipping into a warm current.”
