“There’s so much space. Do you have any idea how you will use it all?”

I haven’t considered that question. I only know this house was meant to be mine. The quiet undertone in my brother’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. I pick up on his subtleties, and this one is well-founded. He’s wondering if and how I can afford it. Property is cheaper here, but still, I have no job. I’ve trimmed my expenses to the bare minimum, and I have a hefty savings account. Between that and the imminent sale of our childhood home, it’s not something I need to worry about yet.

“I haven’t thought about it much. But maybe this will encourage a few more visits from my favorite brother and niece.”

“Am I not your only niece?” With folded arms across her chest, she flashes me one of her signature teenage expressions. She makes it clear I won’t pull one like that over on her.

“Well, yes. But I reserve those adjectives for the truly special people in my life.” I wrap my arm around Lizzie and tug her toward me for a mini squeeze. My mind wanders to a different set of adjectives. Alluring and beautiful.

After a tour through the house, we’ve gathered in my favorite room. Standing at the kitchen table, Russell rests his hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and unpack while your aunt and I talk?” As she leaves, bouncing around the corner and up the steps, I smile with gratitude. For this place. For these people. “You have no idea how talkative she was the entire drive. She couldn’t wait to get here and see you.”

“Wasn’t she disappointed about not being near the shore?” Mountain life and beach life each have their advantages. But I’ve always thought Lizzie leaned more toward the realm of sand and sun.

“She misses you. As do I.” Am I ready for a conversation this deep after being absent from their lives for so long? It’s been several years. My mind says no, but the heart pleads for permission.

“When do you need to leave?”

“In a few hours. I still have a drive ahead of me, and I should get a good night’s sleep before my meeting in the morning.” I’m not sure now is the best time to dive into these deep emotional topics.

“Would you like something to drink? Lemonade, water, or . . . lemonade?” My refrigerator is less than stocked. I live a simple life with simpler needs.

“I wouldn’t mind some of that world-famous lemonade, if you have any to spare with my little fruit camel upstairs. Maybe I can sneak a glass before she notices I’ve stolen some from her promised stash.” He grins as I grab the cold pitcher and a couple of glasses, and pour two servings. As I close the cupboard, my eyes fall upon the jasmine through the window. It’s waving lazily as if to wish me a good afternoon. I can’t help but whisper a greeting in return.

We move to the living room. I place a glass in front of Russell and take a seat across from him. He takes a sip, holds it up, and stares at it. “This brings back so many memories.”

Such a confusing word, memories. By itself, it’s an ambiguous term. Do they represent something good, bad, or otherwise? I’ve had plenty of enjoyable times with my brother. So why is it that all the unpleasant ones float to the surface when we’re together? Is that why I avoid spending more time with him?

“How are you doing?” It’s becoming a frequent question from him. “I know . . . I keep asking.” There’s genuine concern and compassion in his voice. Do I also detect a hint of guilt?

“I’m doing okay.” Pausing for a second, I let more of the truth leak out. “But I’ve been better.” I can’t recall an extended period of positive vibes in my recent past. Every moment over these last couple days has me on edge. Fear consumes me. Everything seems to fall apart once things start going well for me. It’s only a matter of time. I remind myself to hide away for the foreseeable future. It should prevent any of that negativity from infringing upon my world. Then I remember that will be impossible to pull off with Lizzie as my guest. “How’s the business?” Back to safe topics, both of us tiptoeing around the elephant in the room.

“I’m actually quite nervous. I’ve never prepared for anything on this scale before.” He takes another extended sip and stares at his glass. “But I’ve done everything I can.”

“You’ll do great, I’m sure of it. You always persevere.”

“Listen, Claire. About Mom . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” My response comes quick. “That’s in the past now.” At least that’s where I want it to be. And stay.

“No, this is important, and I’ve wanted to talk about it with you. I just didn’t know how.” He sets his lemonade on the table and wraps his fingers together tightly.

“How can you call her ‘Mom’? That name should be reserved for someone who cares for and nurtures people. Especially her own children.” The bile of irritability rises in my throat.

“There was a time . . . when it wasn’t so bad. Before you were old enough to remember, while she still had a job. Back then, she took care of us in the only way she knew how. It was never perfect, but it was real.” I have no words. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to believe any of this. It’s easier to despise her. I don’t have the emotional space or patience to love and hate her in the same breath. “You know that lemonade recipe?”

“Yeah, the one you taught me.”

“Well, before I showed you, she shared it with me.”

How can I stomach another glass of it now? Those sour undertones will surely overpower the sweetness I used to taste. How can my mind mix these two opposing thoughts? Drinking lemonade on the porch while gazing toward an ethereal image of my garden. It’s perfect. And then these caustic memories from the past pollute that beautiful moment.

“I’m sorry.” My gaze darts across the table to Russell. I’ve never heard him use those words before. At least not while talking about this. “I shouldn’t have asked you to handle everything on your own. Truth is, I didn’t even ask. I just assumed you would take care of all the details, and that was wrong.” Our eyes lock, and I notice his pain. I can only imagine he recognizes a similar suffering in me. “When stuff went bad, I wasn’t sure what to do. I feel guilty for not doing more to help you.”

“You were there, and you did help, by getting me to focus on other things. Better things.” He was young too, trying to navigate his way through a sea of doubt and distrust.

“I didn’t come to her funeral because . . .” He stares over my shoulder, contemplating his next words. "Exposing Lizzie to those thoughts of her grandmother wouldn’t have helped. And there’s a part of me that worried about the negative atmosphere. That it might have infiltrated her through some warped form of familial osmosis.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” I don’t completely appreciate his choice, but I’m a lot closer now, and it is the right thing to say. His hunched body posture reveals deep emotional suffering. I need to help him like he did me. Moving from my position on the couch, I walk around the table and embrace Russell in a full hug. He sniffs, fighting back a sob.

“Truth is, Claire, I knew you could handle it. It’s not an excuse, but it is a cowardly reason. I should have been there.” I rub his back, hoping to wipe away some of that unwelcome pain that has risen to the surface. “You are a stronger person than I could ever be.” His words shake something loose inside me.

I hold his shoulders, release him from our embrace, and look him in the eyes. His gaze speaks nothing but unfiltered truth. There’s a lightness in my chest.

After running shaking fingers through his hair, Russell gets up and grabs our two glasses. “How about a refill? I don’t think she’ll notice.”

“Why doesn’t she already know the secret recipe? About how much lavender to put in the pitcher?” I recall Lizzie’s plea for me to share it with her.

“Don’t you remember, there is no secret. It’s whatever feels right in the moment.”

“I know, but why doesn’t she know that?”

“I thought it might be best coming from you, whenever the time was right.”

As Russell disappears into the kitchen, that right time may be quickly approaching. My thoughts tumble back to his message. You are a stronger person than I could ever be. No one has told me that before. I appreciate the power of words, but these carry an extra potency. And coming from the big brother I looked up to as a child, it means even more. Such a simple thought has improved my self-image in the blink of an eye.

He returns with two full glasses and a smile on his face. “It looks like Lizzie has already found her next subject.”

“What do you mean?”

“She enjoys working in watercolors and oil paints. It’s all mumbo jumbo to me, but she has a knack for it.”

“I think your artistic bent has rubbed off on her, just in a different medium.” Russell’s landscaping efforts are a work of art in a way only flowers can achieve.

“Well, she’s sitting on the porch, staring out at a jasmine plant in the middle of a field. Do you know who owns that?” I’m hesitant to offer the truth, unsure where he’s heading with his comment. I didn’t give much thought to its placement. I wanted nothing more than for it to be front and center through the kitchen window.

“As a matter of fact, I own it.”

“Did you plant that there?”

“I did.” Should I share the magical vision that greeted me yesterday? “I have plans to turn it into an expansive English cottage garden. Arbors. Walkways. Flowers of all shapes, sizes, and textures.” I can’t hold it back. Lost in a dreamy state, I let excitement spill from me unfiltered.

“It sounds amazing. I should help you. I do have a bit of experience in that area.” I smile, realizing his offer is only hypothetical. He has a critical business meeting first thing in the morning. “Lizzie looks up to you. You know that, right? Even though we don’t spend a lot of time together, she knows how strong you are.” He leans forward, resting elbows on his knees and tenting fingers over his mouth. “Can I use your phone?” I nod, pointing to the kitchen, still lost in this new feeling of unfamiliar strength.

I get up, make my way outside, and peek around the corner at Lizzie on the side porch. She’s curled up in the rocking chair, with legs tucked beneath her and a palette of watercolors beside her. I glimpse the spiral-bound sketchbook in her lap. She has turned an overgrown field of weeds into a beautiful work of art. With my jasmine as the centerpiece.

“That’s absolutely exquisite.”

She looks toward me, tucks long strands of hair behind her ears, and smiles. “You have to say that. You’re family.”