"They're going to pay you that much?" Dad asks. "For a book you haven't even written yet?"

"Yeah," I say, shoveling another bite of salad onto my parents' new forks. I don't like them—they're a little too wide, and the handles are a little too thin for my liking. Which is a stupid thing to get hung up on, I know, but it really does ruin the caesar salad eating experience. "They'll be paying in installments. I'll probably have around four months to write the book, and then we'll get into edits."

"Wow," my mom says, moving her own salad around her plate. "I'm really proud of you, honey."

"Thanks, Mom." There's this warmth that fills my chest. I think it might be pride.

"So, what's your book about?" Dad asks through a mouthful of iceberg lettuce. "Orphans? Orphans sell."

"Not orphans," I say. "It's, um"—there's this unnamable sort of terror that comes with explaining your book to your parents, I think—"about two sisters who are witches, but only one of them is supposed to get to keep the family magic. The family spoiled the wrong sibling, so now the sibling with the magic has left them, and the other one is stuck in a failing marriage and this, um, community that no longer accepts her."

"Wow," Mom says. "That sounds ... interesting."

"Thanks," I say. My mouth is drawn in a tight line, my face betraying itself. "It's honestly been a lot of fun to write this far. I'm excited to actually write it."

"When are we going to get our copies of your book?" Dad asks.

"Oh!" I push out my chair and stand. "Wait, I actually brought you each a copy. I forgot about that. One second."

"Oh, you don't have to—" Mom starts.

"It's fine," I insist. "One second."

My legs are long enough that I'm able to take the staircase skipping a few steps at a time. I haven't run up this staircase like this since I was a kid. It's something I forgot that I used to do in the first place, but launching myself up thudding step by thudding step feels unnervingly natural.

The books are in my bag where I left them. My descent down the stairs isn't quite so brazen as my way up—I remember slipping down them on Christmas day when I was in high school. I was fine enough that my grandpa spent around two hours laughing about it, but that split-second of blood-freezing terror has stuck with me.

"Here," I say, trying to slow down to a normal walking pace as I make my way into the dining room. I double check that each parent has the right signed copy—please please please don't read the notes in front of me, they're so cheesy—and sit back down.

"The cover feels nice," Mom says, rubbing her hand along the front of it. "Nice texture."

"It looks nice too," Dad says, looking at the spine. "Look at that. Harper."

"I know." Mom traces my name with her finger. "Marcella Harper. We picked out such a good name."

"Seriously," Dad says with a nod. "You almost ended up an Ashley."

I wrinkle my nose. "Oh, god. Yeah, no, Marcella fits way better."

"I remember being so upset when I realized that my child would have the last name 'Harper,'" Mom says, flipping the book over to look at the back. "I always loved it as a first name. I was obsessed with To Kill a Mockingbird when I was around middle school, high school. I named the barn kittens I stole from my uncle's farm Dill and Truman. I always thought that, if I had a little girl, I'd name her Harper."

"And then I ruined everything," Dad says. "Whoopsie."

"Where did you get my name then?" I ask, mouth half-full.

"A cookbook," Mom says nonchalantly. "I just thought it was pretty."

I snort, forcing myself to swallow my salad. "I'm named after a cookbook?"

"Okay, okay, a cookbook author. But look," Mom points out, "you both have a book. That has to stand for something. And it's a very nice-looking book, honey."

I smile. "Thanks, Mom."

"Yeah, you're not named after a cookbook. You're named after a chef, goddammit," Dad says. "She was Italian or something."

"Wow." I shake my head. "So much to live up to, so little lived. I almost had this great literary namesake, but instead I've become a let-down."

"It's better this way," Dad says. "You're the worst cook I've ever seen."

"I'm surprised you've never started a fire," Mom adds. "Genuinely."

I decide not to tell them about the oven.

###

It's past ten—well beyond my parents' usual bedtime—when there's a soft knock on my door. I sit up in bed, adjusting my oversized shirt I got from volunteering at a marathon in college and wiping some of the sleep from my eyes. On the other side of the door, I hear sniffling.

The back of my neck prickles. "Come in?"

The door opens slowly, and for a second, the darkness of the hallway feels ominous—until my mom steps into my room, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She holds my book in her hands, her thumb acting as a bookmark of sorts right towards the end. I look at it, then up at her, forehead scrunching as I try to figure out what's wrong.

"Mom?"

"This book." She sucks in a breath, blinking. "Honey, this book is—I can't believe you wrote this."

"Is it ... is everything okay?" Is that bad? Is that good?

She breathes in, her chest hitching. She's in her pajamas, loose-fitting cotton pants and a tank top she's had since I was little, and she's taken off her makeup.

"I can't put it down," she says, voice breaking on can't. "This book is amazing. Marcie, I–I had no idea you could write like this."

I sit up a little straighter, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Oh, thank you. I—"

"This is messing me up." Her lower lip trembles. All these years, and I didn't even know that her lower lip could do that. "Sorry. I didn't know your book got this dark. I honestly don't know the last time I cried over a book like this."

"Do you...." I pause. Do I get out of bed? Walk over to her? Or do I let her approach me? I settle on stretching out my arms towards her. "Do you want a hug?"

I can see her hesitate, eyes widening for a split second, and I can see her make her decision, too, crossing my carpeted floor to the bed and wrapping me up in her arms. She's standing at the edge of my bed, and I lean in towards her from the side of the mattress. The hug is surprisingly tight—tighter than any hug we've shared in, oh, I can't even think how long.

She smells like lavender. Her body is surprisingly warm. She feels solid in my arms, and I find I don't feel quite so frail as I did when I was a child.

"Sorry," she says, squeezing me. "Just, I think she's about to kill Carl, and I'm crying just thinking about it."

"That's okay," I say, rubbing a circle into her back, tucking my chin against her shoulder. "That means I did a good job."

She laughs, and I can hear that her sinuses are stuffy from all the crying. "This is a very grown-up book. I don't think you should be grown up," she says, not moving away. "It doesn't feel right."

"Agreed," I say, a sudden tightness taking hold over my lungs, shrinking my ribs inwards. "Mom, I'm ... I'm really sorry I haven't visited."

She finally pulls away, but she doesn't say anything. For a moment, her gaze silently searches mine, until finally, she sits next to me on the bed. Her legs hang off the edge of the mattress. I scooch a few inches back to give her space, folding my legs criss-cross.

"I can't blame you for not coming," she says slowly, staring at the window across the room instead of at me. I slid the curtains open, in case it rains again tonight, or in case there's more lightning. As if on cue, there's a slow roll of thunder somewhere miles away, one that still manages to reverberate throughout the house, as if shaking its very bones.

"That last argument we had, I should have apologized for. Your dad and I—" She pauses, rubs her hands together, tries again. "Your dad and I wanted to see you. I could have gone to New York. I should have. I don't know. He talked about helping you buy a ticket, but ... I was so mad, honey. Mad, disappointed, worried, I don't really know. All I knew was that you seemed to stop caring about your future. You won that grant—that big grant none of us had ever heard of, but oh, God, the money—and you talked about getting your masters and selling your book and doing all these amazing things, and I was so, so proud of you.

"But then, that Gina thing wanted you to go to New York with her, and you just threw it all away. And you were so stubborn about it, honey. Just, righteously indignant. It was so infuriating. You kept insisting that it was going to work out, that it was a sacrifice worth making, you never wanted it all anyways, and it made me feel like I was some sort of villain for caring for and worrying about you."

Lightning flashes outside, and slowly, the patter of rain begins to slap against the window.

"I shouldn't have let it get to me as much as it did," she admits. "I'm your mother. It was just so infuriating to watch you throw all these amazing opportunities away, opportunities that your dad and I never knew existed, but you had been working towards achieving since middle school. It just felt like you gave up. You were such a talkative child in middle school. My little Marcie June. The storyteller."

That's true, really. I was somewhat infamous for following my parents around the house, bombarding them with constant made-up stories. Some of them are written down somewhere, saved on a hard drive that's about as old as I am.

"You had so much to share with us," Mom says, running her thumb between the book's pages, still keeping her spot. "So many stories. And then, somewhere along the line, you just stopped talking to us. I was so worried. When you started winning these writing scholarships and these big competitions, I was so relieved. You were still telling stories. Maybe not to us, but you were still telling them. You'd changed, you'd grown a little bit, but you were still in there. My little Marcie June.

"Your dad was the one who didn't want you to major in writing." She turns her head and flashes me an apologetic smile, like she's breaking this news to me, but I remember Dad being frustrated with my major of choice. "He wanted you to study something like accounting or nursing or something. Something stable. And then you poured in all that hard work. The night shifts at Dirk's, the scholarships, the merit aid. You worked so hard to be able to pursue your dream, honey. And I kept telling your dad, 'Even if she doesn't stick with this, she has no student loans. She has a redo if she needs it.' But you kept showing up."

She breathes in sharply. "And then you got into Iowa, and you started dating Gina, and I was happy for you, until she ditched your grandpa's funeral. I kept waiting for you to break up with her. I didn't want to get too involved. I know I tend to do that—be pushy, put too much of my worries onto you and your dad—but then, you announced that you were giving everything up to go move to New York with this girl who didn't even care about you enough to come to your grandfather's funeral."

It stings, but she's right.

"Honestly, Marcie, I was so disappointed. And worried. But when I brought things up with you, you didn't seem to want to listen. You were offended that I wanted you to stay here. And I took that a little too far, I think."

She tilts her head back towards the ceiling. I don't say anything. My ceiling fan whirs slowly counter-clockwise, and the rain continues to splat against the windowpane, and my mother steadies her breathing.

"I am so, so proud of you for writing this book," she says, looking over to me. "I feel terrible. You–you didn't give up. You're still telling stories."

"Yeah," I say softly. My eyes feel fuzzy. I tell myself that it's nothing. That I am most definitely not about to cry.

"This book," Mom says. "I–I knew you had to be a good writer. Amazing writer, really, if you were getting all those grants and awards. I never wanted to be too nosy and ask what you were writing. I was a bit worried I wouldn't know what to say if I didn't think it was good. But this? Honey. I don't know the last time I read something like this."

She leans in and wraps her arms around me, and I follow suit.

"I'm so proud of you," she murmurs next to my ear. "So, so proud of you."

"I really missed you, Mom." One sniffle, and I realize I'm also crying. Which feels so awkward and/or ridiculous that I laugh. Mom pulls away, smiling.

"So," I say, "you think Carl is about to die?"

She winces, then groans. "I think he has to. I mean, he has it coming. And Leona keeps talking about her sister and the court system and, oh, it's just brutal, honey. You're so quiet. I mean, you're funny when you actually decide to talk, but I had no idea your brain was capable of this. I mean, yeah, you graduated third in your high school, but I figured, 'Oh, it's just Iowa.' How are you so smart? Are we really related?"

"I don't know," I say. "You tell me."

She swats playfully at my shoulder with the book, then wipes away the tear streaks from her cheeks. "Ugh. I cried when I read the little letter to me at the beginning of this book, and I have a feeling I'm going to cry through the rest of it."

"You're welcome," I say.

She stands. "I'll give you my final book report in the morning, honey," and she leans in to press a quick kiss to the top of my head. "Alright, sleep well. Let us know if you need anything."

I stretch, nodding slightly. "Thanks, Mom. I love you."

She lingers in my open doorway just a moment. Her smile is small, but so sweet. "I love you too, Marcie June."

She shuts the door, leaving me alone with the sound of rain and, somewhere off in the distance, a low, gentle rumbling of thunder.