Chapter 1

Elizabeth

The sewing machine hums beneath my fingertips as I guide ivory silk through the needle, watching the delicate stitching form along the bodice. Outside, fat snowflakes drift past the window, catching the afternoon light. Clearwater's Main Street looks like something out of a storybook, all twinkling lights and frosted storefronts.

"Mama, look!" Tanner's voice cuts through my concentration. "I made Santa's sleigh purple."

I glance over at the small table I've set up near the register. He's sprawled on his stomach, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he drags a crayon across the coloring book. The sleigh is indeed purple. The reindeer appear to be green.

"Very creative, baby."

"Santa's gonna love it." He grins up at me, those blue eyes sparkling with pure confidence.

My chest tightens with that familiar ache, love mixed with something more complicated. He has his father's eyes. Same shade, same intensity. I force my attention back to the dress, pulling the fabric taut.

The bell above the door chimes. Cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of vanilla and cinnamon.

"Lord have mercy, it's freezing out there." Mama stamps her boots on the mat, balancing a covered plate in one hand. Snow dusts the shoulders of her burgundy coat. "Tanner, baby, come help Grandma before she drops these cookies all over creation."

"Cookies!" Tanner scrambles up, nearly knocking over his crayons.

"Careful." I lift my foot off the pedal, watching as he takes the plate with both hands. "What'd you bring us?"

"Snickerdoodles. Still warm." Mama unwraps her scarf, hanging it on the coat rack by the door. Her gray-streaked hair is slightly mussed, but she looks put-together as always in that dress with the floral print. "Thought you could use something sweet to get through the afternoon."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know I didn't have to." She crosses to Tanner, lifting the foil to let him grab a cookie. "But when's the last time you ate anything that wasn't coffee and stress?"

I open my mouth to protest, but she raises her eyebrows. That look that says she already knows the answer.

"I had toast this morning."

"Mm-hmm." Mama settles into the armchair I keep near the window display. "What time this morning?"

"Six? Maybe five-thirty."

"Elizabeth Marie."

"I've got a lot to finish." I gesture at the dress form beside my machine, where Jasmine's wedding gown waits for final adjustments. "The wedding's in a month, and she wants the beading done by hand, and there's still the—"

"Take a breath, baby."

My shoulders tense. The words are gentle, but they hit like a reprimand. I know what's coming. The same conversation we've had a dozen times since Thanksgiving.

"I'm breathing fine."

"You're running yourself ragged." Mama leans back, crossing her legs. "I see it in your face. You're tired."

"It's the busy season. Everyone wants custom pieces for holiday parties, New Year's, and then there's the wedding—"

"I know what season it is." Her voice stays calm, patient. "I also know my daughter. You're pushing too hard."

I thread a new bobbin, not looking at her. My hands move on autopilot—wind, clip, insert.

"Someone's gotta pay the bills."

"Bills will still be there whether you collapse from exhaustion or not." She pauses. "When's the last time you and Tanner did something fun? Just the two of you?"

Guilt gnaws at my stomach. I glance at my son, now munching his cookie while examining his artwork. Purple sleigh and all.

"We do stuff."

"Letting him color in your shop while you work doesn't count."

"Mama—"

"I'm not criticizing." She stands, moving toward me with that graceful way she has, like she's gliding. "I'm worried. You're carrying too much on your own."

"I can handle it."

"I know you can. You're the strongest person I know." Her hand touches my shoulder, warm and grounding. "But you don't have to handle everything alone. That's what I'm here for. What Jasmine's here for."

I set down the bobbin. The dress waits, half-finished, pins still marking where the beading needs to go. So much left to do.

"This wedding has to be perfect."

"It will be."

"Jasmine's been dreaming about this since we were kids. Remember? We used to plan our weddings in your sewing room, making dresses out of old bedsheets."

Mama laughs, soft and knowing. "I remember. You wanted seven bridesmaids and a chocolate fountain."

"She wanted swans."

"Still does, from what I hear."

"Henry talked her down to doves." I smooth my hand over the silk, feeling the cool slide of it beneath my palm. "She deserves everything she wants. After all she's done for me, supporting me through—" I stop. Don't finish that sentence.

Through the pregnancy. Through Miles leaving. Through every moment I thought I'd crumble.

"Jasmine loves you no matter what kind of dress you make her." Mama's fingers squeeze gently. "But she'd rather have a friend who's happy and healthy than a gown that cost you your sanity."

"It's not costing me—"

"Baby." She turns me to face her. "Look at me."

I do. Her brown eyes are soft, concerned. The same eyes that watched me grow up, that dried my tears when I skinned my knee at eight, that held steady when I told her I was pregnant and terrified.

"You're allowed to slow down. To find balance. The world won't end if you take an evening off."

My throat tightens. I want to argue, to insist I'm fine, that I can manage. But the truth sits heavy in my chest. I'm tired. Bone-deep, soul-tired. The kind that doesn't fix itself with an extra hour of sleep.

"I don't know how to slow down." The admission comes out quieter than I intend.

"Start small." Mama releases my shoulder, moving to the plate of cookies. She picks one up, brings it to me. "Eat a cookie. Not because you have to, but because they're good and you deserve good things."

I take it. The scent hits first: cinnamon and sugar, warmth and comfort. My stomach reminds me that toast at five-thirty was a long time ago.

The first bite melts on my tongue.

"Good?"

"Really good."

"See? Small moments of good." She returns to the armchair. "String enough of them together, and you've got a life worth living instead of just surviving."

Tanner pipes up from his spot on the floor. "Grandma, can we make cookies together? Like the ones with the sprinkles?"

"Absolutely. How about tomorrow after school?"

"Yeah!" He pumps his fist in the air, scattering crayons.

Mama looks at me. "You're invited too. If you can tear yourself away from that machine."

I finish the cookie, brushing crumbs from my fingers. The tension in my shoulders hasn't disappeared, but it's loosened. Just a fraction.

"I'll try."

"That's all I ask." She stands, collecting her scarf. "I'm heading to the market. You need anything?"

"We're okay."

"Tanner, you be good for your mama."

"I'm always good!"

"That's my boy." She kisses the top of his head, then crosses to me. Her lips brush my forehead, and for a second, I'm eight years old again, safe in her orbit. "I love you, baby. Remember that when you're running yourself into the ground."

"Love you too."

The bell chimes as she leaves. The shop feels quieter without her presence, but not empty. Just... settled.

I sink back onto my stool, studying Jasmine's dress. The bodice needs another hour of work, minimum. The beading will take longer. But Mama's words echo in my head. Small moments of good.

"Hey, Tanner?"

He looks up, crayon poised mid-air. "Yeah?"

"What do you say we finish up here in an hour and go see the lights downtown? Maybe get hot chocolate?"

His face splits into the biggest grin. "With marshmallows?"

"With marshmallows."

"And whipped cream?"

"Don't push your luck." But I'm smiling. Really smiling, not the tight version I've been wearing like armor.

He returns to his coloring, humming something that might be "Jingle Bells" or might be completely made up. The sound fills the shop, mixing with the whisper of snow against glass.

I make a silent promise to myself, and to him. We'll find balance. Somehow. I'll make time for us, for moments that aren't about work or bills or keeping everything from falling apart.

But first, this dress. Because Jasmine and Henry deserve the best wedding Clearwater's ever seen. Because love should be celebrated, honored, stitched into every seam with care and intention.

My fingers find the silk again. The machine hums back to life.

Outside, the snow continues to fall.