Chapter 2: Apple Pie and Old Scars

Mason grew up without a dad, and I never knew my mother. When we were little, because our fathers were friends, Mason used to come study at our house. He’d see me crying alone, missing my mom, and he’d always try something—anything—to cheer me up.

I remembered him sneaking into the parlor with a battered deck of cards or a stack of library books, determined to make me laugh. Sometimes, when the sadness was too heavy, he’d just sit next to me in silence, letting me know I wasn’t alone. Those days felt like they belonged to someone else.

His mom’s apple pie was sweet and warm; every day, Mason would bring me a slice. Eventually, I started sneaking over to the Carter farmhouse to play with him. Mrs. Carter was always delighted to see me—she’d pull me into the kitchen to teach me how to bake, and wanted me to learn how to sew, too.

The Carter kitchen always smelled like cinnamon and flour, the table dusted with sugar. Mrs. Carter would laugh and tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, her hands gentle but firm as she guided mine through kneading dough. The radio played oldies in the background, and for a while, I almost believed I belonged there.

But I was young and clumsy, so she’d often hold my hand and say,

"You really are the envy of every girl, Lila—a young lady with everything. But someday you’ll have to stand on your own. I’m teaching you these things because you’ll need them."

She’d smile, eyes crinkling, and I’d nod—even when my fingers were throbbing from another needle prick. It was weirdly comforting, the way she fussed, even as I fumbled every stitch. I wanted to believe she meant it.

She said she thought of me as her own daughter, that’s why she cared so much about my future. Looking at her gentle smile, I gritted my teeth and kept learning, even when my fingers got pricked and sore. Over time, I started to see her as a second mom, even if I never said it out loud.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d remember the way she’d tuck me in with a quilt she’d sewn herself, humming old lullabies. I’d lie awake, listening to the farmhouse creak and Mason’s footsteps in the hall, feeling like maybe I belonged to something bigger than myself. Just for a moment.

Mrs. Carter was never healthy, so once I secretly took a rare herbal tonic from my dad’s medicine cabinet and put it in her oatmeal. I thought I was helping, but it backfired—it was too strong and made her really sick. Mason found me sobbing and didn’t blame me. He just tried to comfort me, soft and steady.

He knelt next to me on the porch steps, his hand warm on my back, whispering, "It’s okay, Lila. You didn’t mean it."

"Don’t worry, Lila. Mom’s tough. She’ll pull through." His voice was gentle, but there was a tremor there, like he was trying to convince himself, too.

But his wish wasn’t granted. Mrs. Carter got sick again just a few days ago. The doctor said she had maybe six months left. That’s why Mason was in such a hurry to propose—he wanted his mom to see him married before she passed, so she’d have no regrets. That hit me harder than I expected.

The weight of that knowledge settled on my chest, squeezing the air right out of me. I pictured Mrs. Carter, pale and frail, clutching Mason’s hand in a hospital bed, and guilt stabbed through me so sharp I had to clench my fists to keep from shaking.