Chapter 10 - Mine
On Lily’s twelfth birthday, Reese hosted a backyard party of her own.
No sparring mat.
No forced games.
Only music, cake, chalk, and a rule Lily had written on a poster near the patio:
ASK BEFORE FILMING PEOPLE.
Harlan laughed when he saw it.
“Good policy.”
Lily nodded seriously.
“Mom says people forget phones can be rude.”
“Your mom is correct.”
Selah came too, with her daughter and a tray of muffins.
“Apology muffins?” Reese asked.
Selah smiled.
“No. Regular muffins. Consent-based muffins.”
Reese laughed.
Briggs did not come.
He had moved two counties away after losing enough social comfort that the old jokes no longer landed.
Reese heard he was in counseling through a veterans’ program.
She hoped it helped.
From a distance.
Forgiveness did not require proximity.
As the sun lowered, Lily asked Harlan to tell the story of how he dropped his beer.
Reese groaned.
“No.”
Lily grinned.
“Yes.”
Harlan leaned back in his chair.
“Well, your mom was standing on a mat, and a very foolish man had failed to tie his shoes emotionally—”
Reese pointed at him.
“Harlan.”
Lily laughed.
Selah laughed.
Even Reese eventually did.
Not because the day had been funny.
Because it no longer owned the room.
Later, after everyone left, Lily helped Reese gather plates from the yard.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Is Raider a bad word?”
Reese stopped.
The evening air softened around them.
“No.”
“Is it a secret word?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is it your word?”
Reese looked toward the place where no mat sat.
Then at her daughter.
“It used to be.”
“What is your word now?”
Reese thought about that.
Mother.
Survivor.
Instructor.
Neighbor.
Friend.
Woman who said no.
Woman who meant it.
She picked up the last paper plate and smiled.
“Mine.”
Lily nodded as if that made perfect sense.
“Good word.”
May you like
“Yes,” Reese said.
“It is.”
