The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Five

I hesitated, glancing toward Isla, who was now sitting cross-legged on the rug, dramatically giving her wooden fox a tiny napkin “blanket.”

“It’s been a while,” I admitted softly. “And I think I could use a little normal. Something that isn’t a deadline.”

“That’s the spirit!” Maya clapped her hands. “Get ready. I’ll sort Isla.”

I smiled and stood, stretching. “Alright, alright.”

As I disappeared into the bedroom, I could hear Maya behind me clapping in delight and immediately dropping into her “professional stylist mode.”

“Okay, little madam,” she said to Isla, who looked up with curious eyes. “You’re going to look absolutely fabulous today.”

From the wardrobe, I could hear them both. Isla giggled as Maya rummaged through the little dresses in the basket by the window, her voice full of playful instruction.

“Nope, not this one—too rainy-day. And this one’s for tea parties only. Ah, this! This is our winner. Look at the flowers on this dress, Isla. You’ll be the queen of Rosebury.”

Isla babbled something in return, clutching the sleeves of the dress like it was a crown.

Meanwhile, I stood in front of my own wardrobe, fingers brushing the edge of a soft blue sweater I hadn’t worn in months. I tugged it off the hanger and slipped it on, choosing comfort over style, then tied my hair into a loose braid. Something about going out—not as a mother on errands, or an artist with meetings—but just... as me, felt refreshing.

When I came out, Maya had Isla dressed and spinning in circles. The little dress was slightly wrinkled from storage, but she looked thrilled with herself. A crooked bow sat on top of her curls, and Maya had even added a little clip shaped like a strawberry.

“She looks like a cupcake,” I said, laughing.

“A fashionable cupcake,” Maya replied, lifting Isla into her arms. “Ready, ladies?”

I grabbed my bag and kissed Isla’s cheek. “Let’s go make bad shopping decisions.”

With that, we stepped out into the cool Rosebury afternoon, the scent of salt in the breeze and the sun peeking just slightly through the clouds—just enough to make the cobblestones shimmer.

As we reached,Marigold’s sat like a storybook painting at the corner of the harbor lane—its windows fogged gently from the inside, the faint scent of lavender and old wood drifting out as we stepped through the door. A tiny brass bell chimed above us, and I was instantly wrapped in the familiar warmth of soft lighting, woven textures, and curated chaos that somehow made you want to buy everything you didn’t need.

“Oh, I’ve missed this place,” Maya sighed, peeling off her coat and hanging it on the rack near the door. “Smells like honey and secrets.”

I laughed under my breath. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Thank you.”

Isla tugged on my hand with tiny fingers, already wide-eyed at a wicker basket filled with knitted animals.

We started slowly, weaving through shelves of patterned scarves, shelves stacked with handmade ceramics, and a wall of framed prints with gentle pastel florals. Maya beelined toward the clothing section, holding up a mustard-yellow cardigan with glee.

“This,” she said, placing it against me, “is you. Cozy, quiet confidence.”

“I look like autumn married a librarian.”

“Exactly!”

I rolled my eyes and took it anyway.

While Maya browsed, I lifted Isla and let her pick from a tiny rack of children’s dresses near the back. Her little hands hovered thoughtfully—then pointed to a dusky rose dress with embroidery at the collar.