Jealous. That word again. It had been her favorite label for me since the day she married my father—and not because it was true, but because it was convenient.
Behind my reflection in the window, I could almost see another image layered faintly over the glass: a wraparound porch, white railing peeling just a little at the corners, an old rocking chair, and the glittering expanse of the Atlantic beyond. The beach house.
Mom’s laugh drifted through my memory, warm and clear, wrapped in salt air.
“Alex, look at that wave! Bigger than you were at five, I swear.”
I blinked away the ghost of the past and focused on the present.
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