Chapter 1

Sophie

The office buzzes with Halloween energy around me, orange and black streamers draped across cubicle walls like spider webs. Someone's brought in pumpkin-shaped cookies, and the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg drifts through the air conditioning. I'm knee-deep in spreadsheets and documents when my phone buzzes against the polished mahogany of my desk.

"Sophie Harper."

"Sophie, honey, it's your Aunt Marie."

The tremor in her voice cuts through my professional facade like a blade. My fingers tighten around the phone, and the Excel spreadsheet on my monitor blurs at the edges.

"What's wrong?"

A pause stretches between us, filled with the distant sound of office chatter and the hum of fluorescent lights. Marie clears her throat, and I know. Before she speaks, I know.

"Your daddy... he passed this morning, sweetheart. His heart just... gave out."

The words hit me with the force of a freight train, and suddenly the Halloween decorations around me transform into something sinister. The cheerful jack-o'-lanterns grin mockingly from their perches, and the fake cobwebs seem to wrap around my chest, constricting my breathing.

"What do you mean… gave out?"

"He was working in the garden, tending to those tomatoes he was so proud of. Mrs. Morales found him when she came by with his mail."

My hand finds the edge of my desk, gripping it until my knuckles ache. The garden. Of course it was the garden. I can see him so clearly—weathered hands covered in rich soil, that old baseball cap tilted at just the right angle to keep the sun from his eyes.

"Sophie? You still there, baby?"

"I'm here." The words scrape against my throat like sandpaper.

"The funeral's gonna be Saturday. You coming home?"

Home. The word hits me like a physical blow. When did Summerville stop being home and start being a place I visited twice a year out of obligation?

"Of course I'm coming home."

After Marie hangs up, I sit frozen in my leather chair, staring at the phone in my palm. Around me, the office continues its Halloween festivities. Someone laughs at a joke I can't hear, keyboards click out the rhythm of productivity, and life marches on as if mine hasn't just tilted off its axis.

The memories assault me without warning, vivid and sharp as broken glass.

Daddy's hands guiding mine as we plant sunflower seeds in neat rows behind our house. "See, Sophie girl, you gotta give 'em room to grow. Can't crowd 'em if you want 'em to reach for the sky."

I press my palms against my eyes, but the images keep coming.

Sunday dinners that stretched for hours, the dining room table groaning under the weight of fried chicken, collard greens, and cornbread that melted in your mouth. Daddy at the head of the table, carving the chicken with surgical precision while regaling us with stories from his week at the hardware store.

"Tell the one about Mr. Johnson and the paint mixer," I'd beg, even though I'd heard it a dozen times.

"Well, if you insist," he'd say with a theatrical sigh, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

A sob catches in my throat, raw and unexpected. When did I stop asking for those stories? When did I start checking my phone during family dinners, mentally composing emails while he spoke?

Christmas mornings when I was eight, nine, ten, racing down the stairs in my pajamas to find presents wrapped in brown paper bags because Mama believed fancy wrapping was wasteful. Daddy would already be up, coffee in hand, watching my face as I tore through each gift.

"Slow down there, speed racer," he'd chuckle. "Ain't going nowhere."

But I did go somewhere, didn't I? I left for college and never really came back. Sure, I visited for holidays and birthdays, but always with one foot out the door, always counting the hours until I could return to my real life in the city.

The guilt crashes over me in waves, each one more devastating than the last. When was the last time I called him? Really called him, not just the obligatory Sunday check-ins where I multitasked my way through our conversations? When was the last time I asked about his garden, his friends at the hardware store, the rhythm of his days?

"You sure are making something of yourself up there in the big city," he'd say during our calls, pride evident in every syllable. "Your mama and I, we're so proud."

But what if I'd made the wrong something? What if all these years I'd been building a life that looked impressive from the outside but felt hollow at the core?

The Halloween cookie someone left on my desk stares at me with its orange frosting grin, and I want to sweep it to the floor. How can there be jack-o'-lanterns and office parties when my father is gone? How can the world keep spinning when the man who taught me to ride a bike, to change a tire, to stand up for myself, will never again answer the phone with his warm "Hey there, Sophie girl"?

Tears fall freely now, hot and unstoppable. I don't care if Janet from accounting sees, or if my mascara leaves tracks down my cheeks. Nothing about this pristine office life feels real anymore. The quarterly reports, the client meetings, the performance reviews, all of it fades to background noise against the deafening silence of a future without my father's voice.

I think about the last time I was home, back in August for his birthday. He'd insisted on grilling despite the heat, standing over those burgers like a sentinel while sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Why don't you let me help?" I'd offered, checking my phone for the third time in ten minutes.

"I got it, baby girl. You just relax."

But I hadn't relaxed. I'd spent the afternoon fielding calls from work, answering emails that could have waited until Monday, living everywhere except in that moment with him.

Now that moment is all I have left, and I wasted it.

The tears dry on my cheeks as I force myself to focus on the immediate tasks ahead. First things first, I need to let HR know what's happening before word gets around the office that I'm falling apart at my desk like some discount Halloween decoration.

I dial Jennifer's extension, grateful when she picks up on the second ring instead of letting it roll to voicemail.

"HR, this is Jennifer."

"Hey, it's Sophie Harper from Marketing. I need to request bereavement leave." The words taste bitter in my mouth, too clinical for what they represent.

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"My father passed away this morning. I need to go home to Georgia for the funeral and to help my family with... arrangements." The word sticks in my throat. Arrangements. As if death is just another item on my to-do list, something to be organized and filed away.

"Of course, absolutely. Take all the time you need. Do you have an estimate of how long you'll be gone?"

I stare at the framed photo on my desk, me and Daddy at my college graduation, his arm around my shoulders, both of us grinning at the camera. When did that hopeful girl in the cap and gown turn into someone who measures grief in billable hours?

"I'm not sure. A week, maybe two? I haven't been home in a while, and there's going to be a lot to sort through."

The understatement of the century. I haven't been home for more than a weekend since Christmas, and even then I'd cut the visit short, claiming urgent work deadlines that probably weren't half as urgent as I'd made them seem.

"No problem at all. I'll get the paperwork started and email you the forms. Just focus on your family right now."

After hanging up, I mechanically gather my things: laptop, charger, the stack of reports I'd been reviewing before the call that changed everything. My hands move on autopilot while my mind races ahead to what's waiting for me in Summerville.

The elevator descends with agonizing slowness, each floor bringing me closer to a reality I'm not ready to face. The parking garage echoes with my footsteps, the sound hollow and lonely against the concrete walls. My BMW sits under the fluorescent lights like a metallic cocoon, all leather seats and German engineering, everything that's supposed to represent success but feels meaningless now.

I slide behind the wheel and sit in the silence for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. Home. I need to go home. But first, I need to go to my house in Westfield Hills, pack a bag, and figure out how the hell I'm going to survive the next week surrounded by family members who've watched me drift away year by year.

The drive through the city passes in a blur of traffic lights and honking horns. My mind keeps circling back to the conversations I know are coming, the questions that'll be asked with varying degrees of subtlety depending on who's doing the asking.

Aunt Marie will be gentle about it, probably wait until we're alone in the kitchen washing dishes. "So, honey, you seeing anyone special these days?" she'll ask, and when I shake my head, she'll get that look. Part pity, part concern, like my single status is a medical condition that needs treating.

Cousin Denise won't be nearly as tactful. She'll take one look at me and launch into stories about her three kids and her husband's promotion, making sure everyone knows how perfectly her life has aligned with traditional expectations. "Thirty-two and still playing the field?" she'll say with a laugh that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Girl, you better hurry up before all the good ones are taken."

And Uncle Robert. God help me, Uncle Robert will be the worst. He's never understood why I left Summerville in the first place, thinks my career is just an elaborate way of avoiding my "real purpose" in life. "Your daddy always said you'd come home eventually," he'll pontificate over dinner. "Said you'd get tired of all that city nonsense and settle down like you're supposed to."

The suburban streets of Westfield Hills welcome me with their pristine lawns and matching mailboxes. Everything here is calculated perfection, the kind of neighborhood where HOA violations are serious business and everyone's landscaping looks like it stepped out of a magazine. I bought this house because it represented achievement, stability, all the markers of success that society told me I should want.

So why does it feel like a museum exhibit titled "The Life Sophie Thought She Wanted"?

I pull into my driveway and notice Jake's truck in the neighboring spot. Through his kitchen window, I can see the warm glow of lights and the outline of movement, probably him and Lily getting ready for dinner. For a moment, I'm struck by how domestic and peaceful it looks, how different from my own pristine but sterile house.

Jake Matthews has been my neighbor for three years now, ever since his divorce was finalized and he needed a fresh start. He's one of those effortlessly confident men who makes fixing a leaky faucet look like an art form, the kind of guy who probably never second-guesses his life choices or wonders if he's living up to other people's expectations.

We exchange pleasantries when we bump into each other, conversations about weather and property values and the occasional borrowed cup of sugar scenario. He's always polite, sometimes flirty in that harmless way that successful, attractive men can get away with. I've caught him looking at me a few times, and there's definitely chemistry there, but I've never acted on it. Too complicated. Too close to home. Too much potential for awkwardness if things went south.

As I'm juggling my laptop bag and purse, wrestling with the front door lock, I hear a small voice call out from next door.

"Sophie! Sophie!"

I turn to see Lily bouncing on her tiptoes at their kitchen window, waving enthusiastically. She's still in what looks like a princess costume from school—probably some Halloween celebration that I would've completely missed if not for the decorations everywhere.

Despite everything weighing on my heart, I can't help but smile and wave back. Lily has this infectious energy that could brighten a funeral parlor. She's always been friendly, sometimes appearing at my door with questions about my car or my job or why I don't have any kids of my own, with the last question delivered with the brutal honesty that only six-year-olds can manage.

The front door finally gives way, and I step into my house. It's exactly as I left it this morning. Spotless, organized, and utterly silent. The marble countertops gleam under the recessed lighting, the throw pillows are arranged just so on the gray sectional sofa, and everything has its designated place.

It's the opposite of the house I grew up in, where Mama's knitting projects sprawled across every available surface and Daddy's reading glasses could be found in at least six different rooms. Where the refrigerator was covered in grocery lists and church bulletins and photos held up by magnets shaped like vegetables.

Standing in my perfect, empty house, I'm hit with a wave of loneliness so intense it nearly knocks me over. This is what I chose instead of Sunday dinners and family chaos and the kind of love that shows up in casseroles and unsolicited advice.

I need to pack a bag. I need to book a flight. I need to figure out how to face a family that's going to take one look at my designer clothes and expensive haircut and wonder what happened to the girl who used to help Daddy in the garden and never missed a church potluck.

But more than anything, I need to figure out how to survive the next week of well-meaning relatives who are going to spend every spare moment reminding me that I'm thirty-two, successful, and completely alone.