They Both Wanted Me Every Day — Now They Both Want Sunday to Last Longer Without Me Chapter 13

They Both Wanted Me Every Day — Now They Both Want Sunday to Last Longer Without Me Chapter 13

“Lena. I spoke too harshly before. Don’t take it to heart.”

I had Frank bring her a chair. “Just say what you need.”

She watched Mia and the new embroiderers working in the yard, her expression complicated. “Ethan hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten. He knows he messed up. You two have history—it doesn’t have to end like this.”

I said, “It does.”

She gripped her bag strap. “What would it take for you to let the Sterlings go?”

I almost laughed. “What did I do?”

She couldn’t answer.

I hadn’t crushed Sterling business. I hadn’t stolen his clients. I hadn’t shut his doors.

I just took back what was mine.

She knew that too. That’s why her face got worse. “Those screens and pieces—we can pay for them.”

“They’re not for sale.”

“Lena. Leave some room.”

I looked at her. “Mrs. Sterling. You turned ‘room’ into a rope and wrapped it around me for seven years.”

She stood up sharply. “Do you hate Ethan that much?”

I shook my head. “I don’t hate him.”

Hating takes energy. I’m busy now.

The atelier reopened. Exhibition orders stretched out six months. Mia trained the new girls in procedures. Frank handled accounts. Arthur Whitman came by sometimes to nitpick.

I had things to do from morning to night.

Ethan and Nora became the oldest page in that book.

…

After Ethan’s mother left, Nora sent her first payment. Not much, in a brown envelope.

She didn’t come in—just had the gatekeeper pass it along.

Inside was a note, [I found a job at a small tailor shop. Started from the bottom—hemming pants. I’ll pay what I owe.]

Mia read it and asked, “Should we send it back?”

I said, “No.”

Her path from here is her own.

That evening, Ethan stood outside the wall.

He didn’t come in. I saw him through the gate—stood there a long time.

Finally, he set an old umbrella at the doorstep.

The one I’d lent him in junior year. The frame had broken—he’d fixed it, broken it again, fixed it again.

A note tucked under the handle: [Here. This is yours.]

I had Frank put it in the storage room.

Not as a keepsake.

Just putting old things back where they belonged.

…

The day my atelier officially reopened, a lot of people came.

My dad showed up too. He stood at the entrance watching the sign go back up, his eyes a little wet.

“If your mother could see—”

I cut him off. “Don’t bring Mom into this.”

He shut his mouth.

After a long time, he said, “I’m sorry.”

I looked at him. “You owe Grandma Eleanor one too.”

He nodded. “I’ll say it at her grave.”

Arthur Whitman snorted beside us. “Say it loud. Don’t let her miss it.”

My dad didn’t argue.

The opening was simple. No red carpets. No huge flower arrangements.

Just a row of hoops. A yard full of magnolias. And my grandmother’s photo.

Mia stood next to me as one of the first formal embroiderers. She fidgeted with her tray again.

I reminded her, “No trays today.”

She laughed. “Old habits.”

The first client was the client—Mrs. Covington. She handed me an old handkerchief.

“It was my mother’s. It’s been torn for years. Can you fix it?”

I took it. “Yes.”

“How long?”

I said, “No rush. Slow work holds.”

She smiled. “That sounds like your grandmother.”

I sat down at the hoop and threaded the needle.

From outside the yard, someone called my name.

Ethan stood at the edge of the crowd, holding a box. He looked thinner than last time.

“Lena. I came to give you something.”

Frank moved to block him.

I said, “Let him in.”