If Violet had known that success tasted like cinnamon buns and coffee served in chipped mugs, she might've started publishing her heartbreak a little earlier.
The bookstore still smelled faintly of last night's release event. The paper lanterns still hung from the ceiling, and the chalkboard sign still read:
"The Places We Remember – A Letter Collection by Violet Everly. Available Here."
It was surreal.
Violet sat on the floor beside the poetry shelf, nibbling on a cold cinnamon roll, flipping through an annotated copy of her chapbook, when Adam burst in through the front door, dramatically gasping for air.
"I just saw your aunt Marianne at the farmer's market," he announced. "She bought six copies and was cornering strangers to read page forty-two aloud to them."
Violet blinked. "That's the one where I confess to accidentally burning down the old chicken coop."
"I know. She was proud."
"She always said it smelled better afterward."
"She called it 'a cleansing blaze of independence,'" Adam said, mimicking her aunt's haughty tone.
Violet laughed, her head tilting back against the bookshelf. "I can't believe people are actually reading this."
"They're not just reading it," Adam said, crouching beside her. "They're feeling it. You opened something in them."
A silence stretched between them then, soft and tender. Violet looked down at her worn sneakers. "What if this is the peak, though? What if I never write anything like this again?"
Adam's hand slid into hers. "Then you'll write something else. Something new. Different. But still you."
"Even if it's a disaster?"
He grinned. "Especially if it's a disaster. That's your specialty."
She elbowed him, but her smile lingered.
---
Later that afternoon, they visited Aunt Marianne's cottage on the edge of town. Violet hadn't returned since the letter project began—she was both drawn to it and slightly terrified by what else she might unearth.
As they approached the gate, they could hear the unmistakable sounds of Aunt Marianne yelling at her cat to "stop gnawing on the godforsaken curtains!"
The door swung open just as Violet raised her hand to knock.
"There you are, my little firestarter!" Aunt Marianne bellowed, grabbing Violet into a fierce hug. "Come in, come in. I made something new!"
Violet and Adam exchanged wary glances.
Inside, the kitchen looked like it had survived a food tornado. Bowls were stacked haphazardly, flour coated every surface, and something was bubbling angrily in a pot.
"I call it 'blueberry gumption stew,'" Marianne declared.
Adam whispered, "Is that legal?"
"No," Violet replied.
They sat at the counter while Marianne flitted about, wearing an apron that said 'Don't Make Me Poison You' in bold red letters.
"I've been thinking about your letters," she said, suddenly quieter, "and your grandparents."
Violet froze slightly. "Yeah?"
Marianne leaned against the stove, arms crossed. "They weren't perfect. God knows they made mistakes. But they adored you. And each other. Even when they didn't know how to show it."
Violet nodded slowly. "I feel like I'm only now learning who they were."
"That's how it works," Marianne said. "You think you know someone when they're alive. Then they die, and suddenly they leave behind puzzles instead of people."
She stirred the pot with unnecessary aggression. "You're doing good, Vi. You're facing it. Most people run."
"I did run," Violet admitted. "A long time ago."
"But you came back," Marianne said softly. "And that's what counts."
---
That night, after surviving dinner (and later ordering emergency tacos in secret), Violet and Adam returned home to find an envelope slid under their apartment door.
No name. Just a wax seal in the shape of a wildflower.
Violet opened it with cautious fingers.
Inside was a single photograph.
It was of Violet's mother. Younger. Maybe twenty. She was sitting in a field of wildflowers, head thrown back in laughter, and in her lap was a toddler—Violet.
The back of the photo had one line written in careful script:
"She loved you. Even when she couldn't stay."
Violet's breath caught.
Adam stood beside her, reading over her shoulder. "Who would've sent that?"
"I don't know," Violet whispered. "But I think I need to find out."
---
Over the next few days, the photo became a kind of quiet anchor. Violet stared at it often, tracing the edges, memorizing her mother's smile.
She reached out to Ms. Derry, her old teacher, who'd known her mother back in school.
They met at the town café, tucked in a corner with mugs of strong tea and lemon muffins.
"She was wild," Ms. Derry said fondly. "Your mom. Brilliant. Stubborn. She'd quote poetry and then steal the answer key to math exams."
Violet smiled. "Sounds like her."
"She talked about leaving Elden Bridge all the time. Said the town was too small for her heart."
"She did leave," Violet said quietly. "But I never knew why."
Ms. Derry looked thoughtful. "Maybe she was scared she'd turn into someone she didn't want to be."
Violet stared into her tea. "And did she?"
"No," Ms. Derry said. "I think she just didn't know how to stay."
---
When Violet returned home, she found Adam in the kitchen, wearing oven mitts and looking slightly panicked.
"There was a fire," he said.
"You were toasting bread."
"It was emotionally unstable bread."
She laughed, pulling the smoking pan from his hands. "Go sit down, chaos child."
They sat together on the floor, eating slightly charred toast with jam, legs tangled under the tiny kitchen table.
Violet pulled the photo from her pocket and placed it in front of them.
"I'm going to write about her next," she said.
Adam looked at the photo. "You think you're ready?"
"I don't know," Violet whispered. "But I think she deserves a letter too."
---
That night, under soft lamplight, Violet opened a new page in her journal.
She titled it: To the Mother Who Left.
And began to write.
I used to be angry at you. For vanishing. For not explaining. For missing birthdays and school plays and the time I broke my wrist falling off the porch.
But then I found your smile in a photograph. And I remembered you used to sing me lullabies in Spanish, even though I never understood the words.
I don't know what chased you away. But I hope wherever you are, you found peace.
And if not—if you're still out there wondering whether I'm okay—then here's your answer.
I'm writing. I'm loving. I'm still learning to stay.
And I forgive you.
She closed the journal, her heart heavy and full at once.
Adam leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. "That one's going to break people."
"I hope it heals them too."
---