STEPS or LOVERS

Denomia kept staring at the picture. She was so lost in it that she didn’t even notice when her mother walked in. "Denny," her mother called softly. The sound jolted her back to reality. "Uhm... hey, Mom. You're back," she said, sitting stiffly at the table, her fingers still gripping the edge of the photo. Mary set the grocery bags on the dining table, but her eyes never left her daughter’s face. She could see it — the sadness tucked behind Denny’s forced smile. "Are you okay?" she asked gently. "I'm fine, Mom," Denny replied quickly, sliding into one of the chairs. Too quickly. Mary didn’t buy it. She sat down in the chair opposite her, reached across the table, and placed her hand over Denny’s. "Honey," she said calmly, waiting until Denny finally looked up. A long pause hung between them. "I got transferred," Mary said after a few seconds. Denny went still. Her stomach dropped. She already knew what that meant. "M-Mom... w-what does that mean?" she stammered, voice barely above a whisper. Mary exhaled. "Uhm... we're moving to California by next weekend." "What!!" Denny shot to her feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as she slammed her hands down on it. "Next weekend? Mom, that’s in like 6 days!" Her heart was beating fast. California. A new house. New school. New everything. Mary flinched at the sound but did not stand up. She just sat there, her hands still on the table. Her face was calm, but her eyes were tired. "Sit down, Denomia," Mary said. Her voice was low at first. Denny didn't move. She was shaking. "But Mom, my friends are here. My school is here. Dad's grave is here. You can't just—" "SIT DOWN!" Mary shouted this time. The word hit the kitchen like a slap. Denny froze. She had not heard her mother shout like that in a long time. Slowly, she sat back down. Her eyes were full of tears but she blinked them away. Mary took a deep breath and let it out. When she spoke again, her voice was firm. No more softness. "Listen to me," she said. "In six days, whether you like it or not, we are leaving this house. We are leaving this city. We are starting everything over in California." Denny stared at her. "But why so fast?" "Because that's when my job starts," Mary said. "I got the transfer letter last month. I have been trying to find a way to tell you. I kept waiting for the right time. There is no right time for this." She stood up and started putting the groceries away, but her movements were sharp. Angry. Sad. "We cannot stay here, Denny," Mary continued without looking at her. "The rent is too high. My new job pays better. It has better insurance. It is closer to your aunt. We need this." Denny looked down at the picture still in her hand. It was old. The edges were soft. In it, she was 9 years old, standing between her mom and dad at the beach. Her dad was smiling with his arm around both of them. The sun was in his eyes. "Dad's behind," Denny whispered. "You said 'leave Dad behind.'" Mary stopped putting cans in the cupboard. For a second, the kitchen was quiet. Only the sound of the fridge. "I know," Mary said quietly. "But we can't live in the past, baby. Your father would want us to move forward. He would want you to have a better life." Denny shook her head. "He's buried here. His whole life was here. How can we just pack him in a box?" "You can't pack a person in a box," Mary said, turning around now. "But you can take the memories with you. That picture in your hand. The stories. That's him. Not the stone in the ground." Denny wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's easy for you to say. You have work. You have a plan. What do I have?" "You have me," Mary said. "And you have six days. So we start today. Right now." She walked to the living room and pulled out two big empty boxes from the closet. She dropped them on the floor with a thud. "Rule 1," Mary said. "We go through everything. What we need, we pack. What we don't need, we sell or give away. No dragging feet." Denny didn't answer. "Rule 2," Mary went on. "We call the school tomorrow and start the transfer papers. We call the moving company today. Still, Denny was silent. Mary's voice softened a little. "Rule 3. You get to be mad. You get to cry. But we still have to move in six days. Okay?" Denny looked at the boxes, then at her mom, then at the picture. She nodded once. It was a small nod. "Good," Mary said. "Start with your room. Pack your clothes first. I'll start in the kitchen." Denny stood up slowly. Her legs felt heavy. As she walked to her room, she could hear her mom on the phone already. "Hi, yes. I need to book a moving truck for next Saturday... Yes, cross-country. To California..." In her room, Denny sat on her bed and looked around. Posters on the wall. Books on the shelf. The little plant her dad helped her grow. Her soccer trophy. Letters from friends. Six days. She opened the first box and started with her clothes. Every t-shirt felt heavy. Every pair of jeans reminded her of a day. The hoodie she wore when her dad took her for ice cream. The dress she wore to her last school dance. She packed, and she cried, and she packed some more. At dinner, they ate in silence. Rice and beans. Mary's cooking. It tasted the same, but everything else felt different. After dinner, Mary sat next to Denny on the couch. She didn't say anything for a while. Then she put her arm around her daughter. "I know this is hard," Mary said. "I am scared too. A new city. A new job. No family nearby except your aunt. But we are a team, you and me. Like always." Denny leaned her head on her mom's shoulder. "Will it be okay?" "I don't know," Mary said honestly. "But we will make it okay. Together. Six days. One step at a time." That night, Denny couldn't sleep. She lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. She thought about California. About a new school and kids who didn't know her. She thought about her dad. Before she closed her eyes, she put the beach picture in her bag. Not in a box. In her bag. Where she could reach it. Six days. Tomorrow, the boxes would get bigger. The goodbyes would get closer. But tonight, she was still here.