The scent of spring drifted softly through Harper Valley—honeysuckle and warmed soil, the kind of day where everything felt like it might begin again.
June sat alone beneath the oak tree, hands resting lightly over her lap, her journal untouched on the bench beside her. She had come early, before the Eliza House opened its doors, before children ran wild with crayon-stained hands and parents shared coffee over community news. She needed silence. Stillness.
A breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
Her eyes lifted toward the branches. "It's real this time," she whispered.
She said it out loud because she needed to hear it from herself—not the soft certainty of a doctor's smile, not Liam's trembling hands when he saw the sonogram, not Ava's shocked gasp on the phone. From her. June , a woman who had spent five long years thinking her body was incapable of miracles.
Pregnant.
At last.
The word still felt like it floated, like a balloon she was scared to pull too tightly.
And yet—
Her hands pressed to the curve that hadn't yet formed. "You're really here."
That afternoon, Ava caught sight of June walking toward the Eliza House, cheeks pink with something between awe and disbelief.
"I thought you were taking the day off," Ava said gently, meeting her on the porch.
"I tried," June said, exhaling. "But I needed to be here."
Ava smiled knowingly. "The tree called you?"
June laughed, brushing a hand over her still-flat stomach. "More like...I needed to tell her. To tell Eliza. She's been part of my story for so long."
Ava took her hand and squeezed. "Then let's write her a letter."
They sat on the wide bench beneath the oak, paper on their laps like old times. But June stared at hers for a while before the words came.
Ava let the silence stretch. She knew this space. She had once written her own letters from pain, and later from joy. Jun's story was a thread in the same tapestry now.
When June finally began to write, it was slow, deliberate—like each word was a soft knock on a long-closed door.
Dear Eliza,
I don't know if you remember me, but I've been walking your trails for years. I've taught history in your house. I've wiped tears beside your letters.
And for a long time, I thought my story would always be told in chapters of waiting.
Hank and I tried. We hoped. We hurt. And every time a test said no, I came here. Sat here. Asked the wind for answers.
You didn't speak, but you always listened.
And now… now I have something to tell you.
I'm going to be a mother.
I'm scared. I'm grateful. I'm unsure how to hold joy without worrying it might slip through my fingers. But I promise—if this child comes into the world safely, they'll grow up knowing where they came from.
Not just from me. From this tree. From you.
Thank you for holding my hope when I couldn't.
Love,
June.
Ava read it silently, then reached over and hugged her, fiercely.
"I think she heard that one loud and clear."
Later that evening, Hank arrived late from a town meeting, dust on his boots and sun in his smile. He barely made it through the door before Thomas bolted at him.
"Uncle Hank!" Thomas yelled. "Guess what? I found a frog with two spots! I named him 'Gregory the Bold.'"
Hank scooped him up, laughing. "Does Gregory live inside now?"
"Only temporarily. Mama said he could stay until bedtime."
June rolled her eyes from the kitchen. "Which I'm guessing means until Gregory escapes and causes chaos."
Thomas beamed. "He's already in the bathtub!"
Jamie snorted into his mug. "A very bold Gregory indeed."
Ava turned to June and smiled warmly. "Tell him."
June hesitated. Her fingers curled around the glass she held. Her eyes met Hank's.
"Tell me what?" he asked, setting Thomas down gently.
She stepped closer. "I went back to the doctor today. The second scan confirmed it."
Hank froze.
June's voice wavered. "We're having a baby."
His hands trembled as he reached for her face, then her waist, then both at once—like he couldn't decide what to hold first. His eyes filled. "You're sure?"
She nodded.
And he broke.
June buried her face in his chest as he pulled her into a fierce embrace, his body shaking with silent sobs. Thomas watched wide-eyed from the living room, then padded over.
"Are you okay, Uncle Hank?"
Hank crouched, arms still wrapped around June and pulled Thomas into the hug.
"We're more than okay," he said. "You're going to be a cousin."
Thomas's eyes widened. "Like, a real one?"
June knelt to his height, brushing his curls back. "You're going to be one of the first people they meet. Maybe you'll teach them about frogs."
"And letters," Thomas added seriously.
"Especially letters," Hank said.
Later, after dinner, after Thomas had shown Gregory the Bold to everyone (including the perplexed dog), Ava and Jamie sat on the back porch with June and Hank, the stars just beginning to peek through the indigo sky.
"I still can't believe it," June whispered.
Jamie raised his glass. "To belief. And to second chances."
Ava clinked her glass softly against June's ,"To the quiet kind of hope—the kind that waits."
Hank took June's hand in his. "To the first heartbeat. And the hundreds we'll listen to after."
Inside the house, Thomas sat at the kitchen table, scribbling something onto a small folded paper.
Ava peeked over his shoulder. "What's that, love?"
"A letter," Thomas said. "For the baby."
She smiled. "Can I read it?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. It's private."
But when he left the table for bed, Ava saw that he had gently placed it beneath the bowl of peaches in the center of the table—just like Eliza had once tucked her words into roots and branches.
She unfolded it when he was gone. It read:
Dear Baby,
You don't know me yet, but I'm your cousin. I'm four and a half. I know how to catch frogs, build stick houses, and tell when the oak tree is singing.
Your mom and dad are good. They laugh a lot.
When you come, I'll show you the tree. And the place where the butterflies live.
We've been waiting for you.
Love,
Thomas.
Ava's eyes stung as she folded it back and tucked it gently beneath the bowl.
The tree outside stirred in the wind.
As if it, too, was listening.
And making space for one more story beneath its ever-growing branches.