Chapter 12
Chapter Title: Home
Kathy
The key turned with a gentle click.
The tiny house sat at the edge of Delmarva Drive, nestled beneath a towering maple tree that had begun its autumn shedding early, scattering vibrant leaves like confetti across the stone walkway. A white picket fence ran unevenly along the front, weathered in places but freshly painted, like someone had started with care but didn’t finish. The siding was a faded robin’s egg blue, the shutters black, with peeling white trim and a front porch just big enough for two wooden chairs. A single porch light flickered to life as the door creaked open.
I stepped inside and froze.
It wasn’t the size that struck me—two bedrooms, one bath, barely enough square footage for a proper fight—but the feeling.
It felt like home.
Not a home. Our home. Somehow, in this sleepy Chesapeake town, Kimberly had recreated the ghost of our Brooklyn brownstone. Not in exact pieces, but in spirit.
The scent was immediate—vanilla, cinnamon, and lavender fabric softener clinging to the air like a whispered memory. Soft light spilled through gauzy curtains. Hardwood floors stretched beneath my feet, warm and scratched in familiar patterns. A pale green couch sat beneath the front window, a vintage afghan tossed across the armrest. On a nearby shelf, a small record player beckoned. I lifted the needle, set it gently on the vinyl, and Nina Simone’s voice filled the room, low and haunting.
“Wild is the wind…”
I dropped my bag by the door. My shoulders loosened slightly, the tension of the past week unraveling thread by thread as I stood there, surrounded by my sister’s quiet, curated world.
The living room was small but intentional—books stacked in messy towers, mismatched candles burned to different heights, a chipped mug holding dried lavender and pencils. Everything had a place, even if it wasn’t neat. Kimberly’s personality lingered in every corner—creative, thoughtful, chaotic in that soft, artistic way that always annoyed me when we were teenagers. Back then, her clutter had felt like an invasion. Now, it felt like a gift.
But what struck me most was what wasn’t here.
No photos. No framed smiles. No proud graduation day candids or posed engagement shots. Not even a picture of Hank. The absence was stark, deliberate.
Her life was curated for comfort, not company. For solitude. This wasn’t a space designed to impress or entertain; it was a sanctuary, built for one.
I drifted into the kitchen, a narrow galley of white tile and black grout. Copper pans hung on the wall like sunbursts. The fridge door was plastered with sticky notes and clipped recipes—her handwriting looping across pages like flourishes in icing. There was a takeout menu with smudged numbers, a calendar with half the month blank, and a sticky note that read: “Try rosemary-orange glaze—no almond!”
Her world was small, but full, brimming with the quiet details of a life she’d built on her own terms.
I leaned against the counter and exhaled.
She rarely shared details about herself. I had confirmed this through the files I reviewed and the contacts I reached out to. She had no presence on social media. Her bakery’s website offered no personal information—no bio, no “Meet the Owner” section—just menu items and seasonal hours, nothing more.
Even Jo, judging by her stunned expression earlier, was completely unaware that Kimmie had a living, breathing sister.
People here seemed to respect her privacy. Or perhaps they simply never thought to question it.
I walked down the narrow hallway. The first door was her bedroom.
It was warm. String lights hung over a metal headboard, glowing like distant stars. Her vanity was cluttered with lipsticks, two perfume bottles, and a small glass vial filled with dried peony petals—Mom’s favorite. My throat tightened at the sight.
The quilt on her bed was old—handmade. I recognized the stitching, the tiny patches of fabric from our childhood: a piece of Dad’s old church shirt, one of Mom’s aprons, the faded corner of my sixth-grade Halloween costume. She had never mentioned she’d kept it. I had assumed it was lost, packed away, forgotten in some dusty moving box from a life we’d left behind.
The second bedroom was less a room and more a storage space. A futon sat against one wall, surrounded by neatly labeled boxes—“Seasonal,” “Delish files,” and one unmarked bin filled with old journals and torn recipe pages, their edges curling like autumn leaves. I brushed the lid but didn’t open it. Not yet.
Then the bathroom. Tiny. Clean. The same greenish-white subway tile as our childhood home, though here it was paired with bronze fixtures instead of chrome. I ran my fingers along the edge of the sink. Her toothbrush was still there and a white towel hung on the rack.
I returned to her bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the blank wall above her dresser. No pictures. No trinkets. No sentimental clutter. Her life was organized around her bakery, her recipes, her routines. But not her future. There wasn’t a single wedding invitation or planning guide. Not even a sticky note with Hank’s name on it.
Everything in the house felt paused, not abandoned, as if she'd meant to come back.
I crossed to the closet. Her shoes were all there, lined up in neat rows. Her jackets hung in seasonal order. I opened the laundry hamper—half full. In the kitchen, her favorite mug sat in the sink, ringed with old coffee. On the windowsill, a small herb garden wilted, thirsty and forgotten.
Wherever she went, she hadn’t planned it. The realization settled in my chest like a stone.
I found myself watering her plants, grounding myself in the simple act of caretaking. The basil perked up slightly under the stream. I whispered a promise to it, though I wasn’t sure if I meant it for the herbs or my sister: You’re not alone. Not anymore.
Back in the living room, I sank into the couch and leaned back. My eyes burned. The weight of her absence sat heavy across my chest.
It was the strangest thing—to feel more connected to her here, in this space she never invited me into, than in any phone call or text we’d exchanged over the last two years.
And now, she was missing.
I reached for one of the throw pillows. It was embroidered in bold script:
“Love fiercely. Bake often.”
Of course it was.
I pulled the spare key from my jacket and placed it on the coffee table. It glinted in the soft light, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Kimberly hadn’t just lived here. She had built something. A quiet life. A private one. A sanctuary.
And someone had shattered it.
Not on my watch.
Not without a fight.
I kicked off my boots, curled up in the corner of the couch, and let Nina Simone finish her song. The late morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, settling on the floor like golden dust.
I clutched the throw pillow fiercely, as if rehearsing the heartfelt embrace I’d wrap her in the moment we met.
I hadn’t come looking for comfort.
But somehow, she’d left it for me anyway.