They Both Wanted Me Every Day — Now They Both Want Sunday to Last Longer Without Me Chapter 14

They Both Wanted Me Every Day — Now They Both Want Sunday to Last Longer Without Me Chapter 14

Ethan set the box on the table.

Inside was the old leather cord, and the promissory note he’d written back then.

[I found the cord. And I’ll pay back what’s on the note.]

I picked up the note. The handwriting was young—sharp, stubborn.

Back then, he really did mean to pay it back.

Then he forgot.

I handed the note to Frank. *Put it on the account.*

Ethan smiled bitterly. “No old feelings at all?”

I looked at him. “There are. That’s why it’s just the account.”

He understood.

If there were none, it wouldn’t just be about money.

He lowered his head. “Good luck with the atelier.”

I said, “Thank you.”

He turned and left. He didn’t look back.

Neither did I.

Six months later, Mist & Peak’s first independent showcase was held in an old theater.

This time, every name on stage was clear.

Designers. Embroiderers. Restorers. Dyers. Pattern makers.

No one’s credit was hidden behind someone else’s light.

Mia was in charge of the finale piece. She paced backstage, nervous.

“Miss Vance… what if I can’t handle it?”

I fixed her collar. “Scared or not, you get out there.”

She took a breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

In the audience sat many familiar faces.

Arthur Whitman in the front row, magnifying glass in hand, judging every detail.

Mrs. Covington with her niece.

My dad in the back, holding my mother’s old handkerchief.

Nora came too. She bought a regular rear-row ticket.

I saw her on the backstage monitor. She wore her tailor shop uniform, with new calluses on her hands.

She didn’t come find me. Just sat there, watching every piece closely.

Ethan didn’t come.

He sent white orchids, which I sent back.

Not out of hate.

Just out of no longer needing them.

When the finale piece came out, the entire theater went quiet.

It was a long black coat with magnolia embroidery—old techniques merging with new cuts. It didn’t try to please anyone. It didn’t hide its edge.

Mia stood at the side of the stage, gripping the curtain.

Arthur finally lowered his magnifying glass. He said, “Didn’t disgrace her grandmother’s name.”

Mia nearly cried when she heard that.

After the show, Nora waited for me at the exit.

She handed me an envelope. “This month’s payment.”

I took it.

She said, “I can alter sleeves now. And sketch simple patterns myself. My master says I have decent hands—I was just too impatient before.”

I said, “That’s good.”

She looked at me, old shadows still in her eyes—but she wasn’t trying to hold on anymore.

“Lena. I used to think everything you gave me was charity. Now I realize back then, you really did see me as a friend.”

I said, “I did.”

She smiled. “My fault.”

I didn’t comfort her.

Not everything you lose can be found again.

After Nora left, Frank pulled the car around. He asked, “Miss, back to the Sycamore House?”

I looked at the lights outside the theater. “To my grandmother’s grave first.”

The car drove down the street. I took the old leather cord out of my bag and dropped it into a recycling bin on the curb.

It fell without a sound.

At Grandma Eleanor’s grave, I placed fresh magnolia blossoms. The wind moved the petals across the headstone.

I went through the past six months, piece by piece.

The atelier had reopened. The old patterns made it into the exhibition. Mia had become an embroiderer who could stand on her own.

My dad went to Grandma’s grave and apologized—loud enough to count.

Ethan was still paying. Nora was still paying.

I hadn’t forgiven them. And I wasn’t trapped by them anymore.

At the end, I pressed my forehead to the cool stone. “Grandma. I don’t hate needles anymore.”

The wind carried the scent of magnolia.

Frank waited for me in the distance.

My phone lit up.

A message from Ethan, [Lena. I was outside the theater today. I didn’t come in. You were great.]

I read it. Deleted it.

Another message came in. From Nora, [I’ll keep paying and learning.]

I replied with two words, [Got it.]

Nothing more.

On the drive back, Frank said, “Miss, three more appointments tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Space them out.”

“Mr. Whitman said he’s coming the day after to nitpick.”

“Have coffee ready for him.”

Frank smiled. “And Mr. Sterling’s payments—monthly?”

“Monthly.”

“And Ms. Hale?”

“Monthly too.”

Outside the window, the sky was about to break.

I remembered years ago—Ethan and Nora sitting on either side of me, heads down, walking me through problems.

Back then, I thought I’d found the two truest hearts in the world.

I know better now. True hearts aren’t found.

Found things—when they get dirty or broken, you hate to let them go.

The ones you grow yourself—those, no one can take away.

The Sycamore House gates stood open. Mia was already in the yard practicing, new-dyed threads hanging from the magnolia tree.

I walked in and picked up the needle beside the hoop.

The first stitch fell as morning light spilled in.

The thread held steady. My hands held steady.

From now on—Monday to Sunday—they all belonged to me.