The day Maeve turned twenty-eight, she sat alone in the greenhouse behind the Sienna House and cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly — like she was exhaling something she didn’t know she’d been holding.
She’d just gotten off the phone with a gallery in Berlin — her first international exhibition invite — and instead of feeling celebratory, she felt… hollow.
It made no sense.
She had everything she had ever wanted.
A published poetry collection. A community of artists who adored her. A relationship built on kindness, not fireworks. A family that showed up, no matter what.
And still — that old, familiar ache.
Am I really doing this for me?
Or am I just trying not to disappoint everyone who came before me?
Maeve was born into legacy.
Her grandmother was the great Junie
