Substitute Wife

Chapter 4: First Meeting

The Hallam household sat at the end of a narrow, tree-lined street, its garden modest but neatly kept, as though Tatiana had once made an art of taming wildflowers. The soft clang of wind chimes drifted with the breeze, a gentle, almost mournful sound that reminded Tabatha of simpler, happier times she wasn’t sure were even real anymore.

Her suitcase was still in the car, untouched. She hadn’t dared bring it in—some subconscious part of her still hadn’t decided whether she would stay. It was easier to pretend this was just a visit. Temporary. Reversible.

As she approached the front steps, her hands felt foreign at her sides, uncertain of what they should be doing. She had imagined this moment a thousand times since the letter—rehearsed greetings, practiced looks of grace and strength—but now that she stood in front of the pale blue door, all those mental scripts scattered like ashes in the wind.

She raised her hand.

Knocked.

It felt heavier than it should have.

Moments passed.

Then the door creaked open.

And there he was.

Kyle Hallam.

He looked older than she remembered—not just in the fine lines webbed at the corners of his eyes or the way his shoulders sagged with fatigue, but in the way he held the door like it weighed something more than wood. A man carved hollow by the slow erosion of grief and responsibility.

“Tabatha,” he said, his voice low, unreadable.

She nodded, unsure whether to offer a handshake, a hug, or nothing at all. “Hi, Kyle.”

A pause stretched between them, taut and uncertain.

He stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Inside, the house was quiet. Lived-in. Clean but cluttered. There were drawings taped along the walls—stick figures, flowers, suns with smiling faces. A soft trail of piano notes drifted from deeper in the house, hesitant but melodic.

“She practices every morning,” Kyle said, nodding toward the sound. “It helps her center.”

Tabatha followed him into the living room. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something warm—oatmeal, maybe. A blanket was draped over the back of the sofa, and children’s books were stacked beside it.

It was a home.

A real one.

And she didn’t know how to belong in it.

“She’s in the music room,” Kyle said. “I thought you should meet her there.”

Tabatha’s heart knocked against her ribs.

Now?

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Just led her down a short hallway, where the sound of the piano grew louder. Not perfect. Not practiced like a prodigy. But filled with something raw and careful. Intent.

Kyle knocked gently on the door before pushing it open.

“Katie,” he said, his voice softer now, warmer. “We have a visitor.”

The piano stopped.

There was a pause. Then a soft voice.

“Is it the lady from the stairs?”

Tabatha blinked.

Kyle looked back at her with a hint of something—surprise? amusement?

“She noticed you,” he said.

Then he stepped aside.

And Tabatha saw her.

Katie sat at the piano bench, her back straight, her fingers poised over the keys. Her eyes were open but distant, as if watching something far beyond the room. Her dark curls tumbled down her shoulders, and her face—delicate, thoughtful—was a mirror of Tatiana’s when she was a child.

“Hi,” Tabatha said softly.

Katie tilted her head.

“You smell like apples,” she said matter-of-factly.

Tabatha blinked, then gave a short, unsure laugh. “That’s... my shampoo.”

“I like it,” Katie said, her tone approving.

Tabatha stepped into the room, slow, deliberate. She felt like an intruder in a sacred place.

Kyle stood by the doorway, watchful.

Katie turned her face toward Tabatha, reaching out slightly, uncertain.

Tabatha’s heart twisted.

She walked closer and knelt beside the bench. “I’m Tabatha. I... knew your mom when we were kids.”

Katie’s face lit with sudden curiosity. “You’re her sister.”

“Yes.”

Katie’s small fingers reached toward her, hesitant, searching. Tabatha offered her hand, and Katie’s found it with ease, exploring the shape of her palm and knuckles like a sculptor feeling out clay.

“You feel nervous,” she said.

Tabatha laughed again, this time softer. “I am.”

“Why?”

“Because this is important. Meeting you.”

Katie tilted her head again, her expression thoughtful. “Do you play piano?”

“No.”

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

Tabatha smiled despite herself. “That sounds nice.”

Kyle stepped further into the room. “Katie, do you want to show her your favorite song?”

Katie nodded eagerly. “Okay.”

She turned back to the piano and began to play. The melody was simple, stilted, but beautiful in its sincerity. Tabatha watched in silence, her chest tightening with something unnamed.

Katie played with care—not with perfection, but with heart.

Tatiana had taught her that. Tabatha could feel her sister in every note.

When the song ended, Katie smiled. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

Katie turned to her, reaching again. “Your voice is warm. It sounds like Mommy when she used to sing.”

Tabatha’s throat tightened. “She has a beautiful voice.”

“Had,” Katie said quietly. “She doesn’t sing anymore.”

Kyle looked down.

Tabatha’s eyes stung.

Katie’s fingers wrapped around hers again. “Are you staying for lunch?”

Tabatha hesitated.

Kyle’s voice broke the silence. “We made too much. And she’s been excited since she heard your name.”

Tabatha looked between them.

And nodded.

“I’d like that.”

---

The kitchen was bright, sun streaming through lace curtains. The table was already set with simple fare—grilled cheese sandwiches, cut diagonally, a small pot of soup, and apple slices fanned out on a plate. Tatiana’s touch was everywhere. The dishes, the folded napkins, the little vase of wildflowers in the center of the table.

Katie sat at the head of the table, legs swinging beneath her seat.

“You sit next to me,” she said to Tabatha.

Kyle served the soup, his movements methodical.

“So,” he said as they ate, “you’ve been in the city long?”

“Two days,” Tabatha replied. “I stayed at an inn nearby. I wasn’t sure if...”

He nodded, finishing her sentence with silence.

Katie sipped her soup, then perked up. “Can we go to the park later?”

“We’ll see how Mommy feels,” Kyle said gently.

Katie went quiet.

The rest of the meal passed in snippets of conversation, mostly driven by Katie’s questions—What was Tatiana like as a kid? Did she really climb trees in a skirt? Did she eat pickles on peanut butter sandwiches?

Tabatha answered them all, memories unfolding like forgotten letters pulled from a drawer.

After lunch, Kyle cleared the table. Katie returned to the piano. Tabatha offered to help, and they washed dishes in a rhythm of clinking plates and quiet understanding.

“She likes you,” Kyle said after a while.

“She doesn’t know me.”

“She knows enough,” he replied. “That you’re here. That you sound like her mother. That you didn’t run away.”

Tabatha dried a plate. “I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

She glanced at him. “You don’t have to be kind to me, Kyle. I know I wasn’t there before. I know what Tatiana and I became... or didn’t become.”

He rinsed the last bowl. “People change. Especially when the end is near.”

“She forgives me?”

He looked at her. “She never stopped loving you.”

---

Later, Kyle brought her to the room where Tatiana was resting.

Tabatha hesitated at the door.

“Take your time,” he said, then stepped back.

The room was dim, curtains drawn. A small oxygen machine hummed in the corner. Tatiana lay in bed, thinner than she had ever been, her skin pale, but her eyes—when they opened—still fierce with that same fire.

“Tabby,” she whispered.

Tabatha stepped inside, tears already spilling. “I’m here.”

“You came,” Tatiana said, her voice breaking.

Tabatha took her hand. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Tatiana smiled, weak but radiant. “It’s not about when. Just that you did.”

Tabatha leaned forward, pressing her forehead to her sister’s. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” Tatiana said. “Because you already are.”

Tabatha closed her eyes, letting the moment hold them.

Outside the door, the sound of a piano drifted through the hall.