Chapter 9 - Autumn Leaves
The leaves outside my living room window turned brilliant shades of amber, crimson, and gold, carpeting the front lawn in a thick, rustling blanket of autumn colors.
It was a Sunday afternoon—the exact same day of the week the family dinners used to take place.
In the old days, I would have spent all morning slaving over a massive roast in the kitchen, baking pies, setting the formal dining table, and worrying about whether Marcus would complain about the salt or Marissa would find something to criticize.
Today, the house smelled of freshly brewed cinnamon tea and baked apple tarts.
There was no roast. No formal table. Just me, curled up in my favorite armchair by the living room window, wearing a comfortable wool cardigan and reading a thick paperback historical novel.
The doorbell rang.
I paused, lifting my bookmark to mark my page. For a fraction of a second, the old reflex flickered—a sudden, nervous tightening in my chest. Who is it? Is it Tyler? Are they back?
I took a steady breath, stood up, and walked calmly to the front door. I didn't rush. I didn't panic.
I opened it.
It wasn't Tyler. It wasn't Marcus or Marissa.
It was Martha, standing on the porch with a steaming plate of homemade pumpkin bread wrapped in cellophane.
"Margaret!" Martha beamed, holding out the plate. "I baked too much, and since I know you're sitting in here all by your lonesome enjoying your peace and quiet, I figured you wouldn't mind helping me finish it."
May you like
I looked at the warm, golden pumpkin bread, then up at my dear friend’s smiling face. The afternoon sunlight warmed the porch, catching the faint, faded scar on my forehead—a mark of a battle won, a reminder of the day I finally saved myself.
"I'd love nothing more, Martha," I said, swinging the door wide open. "Come on in. Put the kettle on."
