Emma laughed.
It was the first unguarded sound she had made since the storage room.
I stood a few feet away, watching them.
Rachel looked so much like Claire around the eyes that grief sometimes arrived before I could prepare for it. The resemblance was strongest when she smiled, but there were differences too. Rachel moved quickly, spoke directly, and wore emotion openly. Claire had been quieter, arranging her feelings carefully before sharing them.
Rachel set Emma down and hugged me.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then her expression softened.
“You should have called me yesterday.”
“I know.”
That was enough for now.
At Rachel’s apartment, we ate takeout noodles around a small kitchen table. Emma told her about the false scholarship, the music notes, and the key.
She left out the storage room at first.
Then, halfway through dinner, she set down her fork.
“Mrs. Gable said Mom was an excuse.”
Rachel became completely still.
I expected anger. Instead, she reached across the table and placed her hand over Emma’s.
“Your mother was many things,” she said. “She was brave. She was stubborn. She sang the wrong words to nearly every song on the radio.”
“She did?”
“Confidently.”
Emma smiled.
