Inside were photos—Emily with her mother at the beach, baking, laughing, celebrating birthdays. Emily touched each image as if it might vanish. Tears finally came.
Rachel sat nearby, silent.
“She’s gone,” Emily whispered.
“I know,” Rachel replied softly.
Emily swallowed.
“Dad doesn’t talk to me anymore. I think he blames me.”
Rachel felt her chest ache.
“That’s not true. He’s hurting. But he loves you.”
Then Emily confessed what no one else had heard:
“When I eat, I forget her for a moment. If I don’t eat, she stays alive inside me.”
Rachel took her thin hand.
“You won’t forget her. Even if you eat. Even if you laugh. She lives in you. And she would want you alive.”
Emily broke down. Rachel held her without rushing.
Finally, Rachel offered a pact.
“Today, just one small thing. Tomorrow, you tell me stories about your mom. We’ll keep her alive that way.”
Emily nodded faintly.
Downstairs, Rachel warmed light chicken broth and served it in a small cup.
“One spoon,” she whispered.
Emily swallowed. Nothing bad happened.
“I did it,” she whispered.
“Yes. I’m proud of you.”
By the time Helen returned, Emily had eaten half the cup.
“She ate?” Helen asked, stunned.
“She did.”