“At my resort,” I said.
For two seconds there was no sound at all, not even breathing. Then, “Benjamin just told me the most ridiculous story. He said you bought a beachfront resort. A resort, Amelia.”
“It isn’t ridiculous,” I said. “It’s true.”
She made a small, stunned noise. “How is that possible?”
I almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because there was something so perfect about that question coming from her. How is that possible? As if my life had only ever been one long mistake in her eyes. As if hard work turned into stability only for other people. As if success could grow in any daughter’s hands except mine.
“Apparently,” I said, “I had a good year.”
“A good year?” she repeated. “Benjamin said you booked the whole place for the family. He said everyone was there. Carol, David, Nancy, the Martinez family—everyone. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you invite us?”
I looked down at Mia, who had crouched to tie the shoelace of her cousin Rachel’s little boy. She did it with the seriousness she brought to everything, her dark braid sliding over one shoulder. Alex had his father’s quiet steadiness and my tendency to observe before speaking. He was carrying two beach chairs under one arm as though he’d been born helpful. My children looked so at ease here. So unquestionably welcome.
The answer rose through me as clean and hard as the tide.
“You told me for eight years that there wasn’t enough room at your beach house,” I said. “I’m telling you there isn’t enough room at my resort.”
