Chapter Thirty-One: The Burned Yams and Other Miracles

This is Mira’s story—part fiction, part reflection, wholly honest.
(Each chapter will end with a note from her writing, signed as your trusted friend.)

Mira’s Story: The Table That Held Us
Stepping into warmth, and something more than just a meal.

Rowan’s house was full.

Not just with people, but with noise, warmth, and the scent of cinnamon, roasted garlic, and brown sugar. And then there were the scents Mira always associated with Rowan, cedar and sunshine.

Mira had arrived with Pepper and her parents balancing armfuls of side dishes and a bottle of wine, only to be immediately ushered inside by Rowan with a smile that hadn’t left his face all morning.

Pepper had announced loudly upon entering that her cranberries were bomb and someday she’d win awards or be the next Martha Stewart and then promptly disappeared to find Cal and deliver a complicated handshake.

Mira wasn’t usually nervous around people. But today, stepping into the fold of Rowan’s family, with her family in tow, her stomach fluttered with the kind of nervous hope she hadn’t felt in years. She could feel the quiet weight of what today might mean… for her, for Pepper, for all the careful steps they’d taken to get here.

This wasn’t like other holidays.

This was… full.

Not just with the food or the noise, but with more love than she’d dared to imagine.

It mattered in ways she hadn’t expected.

Enough to make her chest tighten and her hope tuck itself away, just in case.

The house was buzzing: Rowan’s dad was in the living room with Pepper and Cal, talking loudly over the TV about his last cruise to Alaska, a story that involved moose sightings, an accidental karaoke contest, and learning to salsa dance. At one point he even attempted to grab Pepper for a demo, much to her mortification. His new wife, cheerful and quick-witted with one-liners, added her own flourishes from the couch.

They’d met later in life, long after either expected to find love again, while debating prune ripeness at the grocery store. Now, they moved like a pair that had survived grief and decided to live wide-open. It was contagious. Their energy made those around them soften, let go, and believe again… if just a little.

Rowan’s dad was jovial, off-beat, and clearly adored by the kids. Mira could see how Rowan had been able to heal. Why he had the capacity to stay soft after loss.

Ellie moved between rooms, carrying extra silverware and managing the playlist with quiet precision. Taking her self-assigned roles as half big-sister, half stage manager seriously. Paige bounced the baby on her hip, meeting Mira’s eyes intentionally and offering a small, hesitant—but not unfriendly—smile.

Her partner, Daniel, stood a few feet behind her, one hand in his pocket, the other still gripping the strap of the diaper bag slung over his shoulder, like he wasn’t quite sure whether to stay or go.

Mira’s mom, observant and sharp-eyed, was already sipping wine in the corner. Mira could tell she was collecting impressions, protective instincts on simmer. Her dad, on the other hand, had found Rowan instantly, and the two were deep in a boisterous conversation about regional stuffing techniques like they’d known one another for decades.

Her dad’s laugh rang through the room, big and familiar. He was the kind of man who made friends in checkout lines and shouted compliments at strangers. Her mom, quieter but no less commanding, kept one eyebrow arched and her wit ready, always reliable to have the perfectly placed snarky joke.

Mira had felt alone for a long time. But as she watched her parents move through the house like it was theirs too—easy, grounded, essential—she was reminded: she’d never actually been alone. Maybe just missing the kind of partnership she now had a glimpse of.

Despite the whirlwind, Mira and Rowan moved like they always did: in sync.

His hand brushed the small of her back as she passed him a serving spoon. He filled her wine glass without asking. Her fingers found his forearm when she laughed. Their eyes caught often, like silent little notes exchanged across the room that said, “I’m here,” and “I see you.” Like they were each their own planets caught in one another’s gravitational pull.

At one moment she caught her dad, quiet (a rarity for him), just watching Mira and Rowan with a soft smile on his face.

Later, Mira slipped into the kitchen, catching the unmistakable scent of something burning.

Candied yams were proving more emotional than expected.

“Are these supposed to be on fire?” Mira asked, wrinkling her nose as she peeked in the oven.

Paige groaned and tugged open the door. “They’re not on fire. They’re… toasty.”

“They look like they’ve been to war.”

“They’re ambitiously caramelized,” Paige deadpanned.

Mira laughed. For a beat, it was just two women in the kitchen. Not ex and current. Not past and present. Just two tired women trying to keep marshmallows from ruining the day.

“I burn these every year,” Paige added. “Rowan said he liked them borderline incinerated. Said it reminded him of campfires.”

“Of course he did,” Mira grinned.

Paige reached for a potholder. “And what culinary miracle did you bring?”

Mira arched a brow. “Sweet potatoes. With pecans. And restraint.”

Paige smirked. “Restraint? Where’s the marshmallow mountain?”

Mira gasped. “You mean the toasted sugar swamp you serve every year?”

“That sugar swamp,” Paige said, opening the oven dramatically, “was tradition.”

“That sugar swamp,” Mira said sweetly, “is a crime against root vegetables.”

They stared at each other a moment too long and then cracked up at the same time. The kind of laughter that bubbles up unexpectedly and connects you without warning.

Paige shook her head with a bemused exhale. “I didn’t think I’d be able to stand this, you, but here we are… joking about yams.”

Mira gave a small shrug, her voice soft. “Yeah. This is a little surreal, isn’t it?”

“Weirder things have happened,” Paige said, lifting a brow. “But not many.”

Paige wiped her hands on a dish towel. “He looks… different. Lighter.”

Mira, reaching for the wine, paused. “Huh. I can’t speak to what he was like before,” she said with a small shrug. “But I really love the man I’ve gotten to know.”

She hesitated and then added, gentle but honest. “He seems like someone shaped by what he’s lived through. By who he’s loved. And I think that matters.”

“He would’ve loved both,” Paige said softly.

And Mira, just as quietly, said, “I know.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the living room through the kitchen entry.

Rowan was helping Mira’s mom settle into a chair, while Pepper and Ellie hovered over the baby, whispering and giggling. Daniel was trying, Mira could see that, but he looked like a man who knew he’d always be slightly outside the circle.

Paige spoke again, more carefully this time. “He looks at you like he can finally let go of everything he’s been holding. And the kids… they’re alive in a way I forgot was possible.”

Mira turned, her voice soft. “It’s not just me. They already had that in them. I just got to show up for it.”

Paige nodded. “Ellie’s already claimed Pepper like a sister.”

Mira smiled, then hesitated. “Pepper’s… been through some things. Her dad…he’s not really in the picture. Never was, not in the way that mattered. She’s had to be older than she should be.”

Paige didn’t respond for a long moment. Then, quietly: “My family’s in Paris right now. Having oysters and giving each other passive-aggressive looks over champagne. They’d never do a holiday like this. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it… until I thought I’d lost it.”

Something shifted behind her eyes. “You’re good with them. And they’re good for her.”

A long breath passed between them. Then Mira said, “They feel like a constellation, you know? All a little off-center, but together they shine.”

Mira pass Paige her glass of wine. “You ever want a break from tradition,” she said, “you’re welcome to my sweet potatoes next year, too.”

When Mira left the kitchen to deliver drinks, Paige stayed behind. She leaned on the counter and stared at the dish of nearly scorched yams. Her eyes burned, just a little. Because somehow, in the wreckage she’d left behind, something beautiful was blooming. And even if she wasn’t at the center of it anymore… she could feel the shape of gratitude starting to form.

Dinner was loud.

Rowan’s dad delivered a toast halfway through the meal that was equal parts wisdom and cruise ship humor, his wife chiming in with a reference to their next vacation, which involved themed trivia and more salsa dancing. She even invited Mira’s parents, promising they’d love the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Mira’s dad kept yelling jokes across the table at Pepper, who yelled back with a wide grin. Mira’s mom sat beside Ellie, the two trading dry observations and smirks, like they’d been doing it for years.

Ellie handed Pepper the gravy boat and smirked. “Try not to drop it, little sis.”

Pepper grinned. “No promises.”

Mira caught the moment in her chest like a breath held too long. Ellie hadn’t meant it as anything big. But to Pepper, who’d spent years outside the lines of normal family it was everything.

Rowan kept reaching for Mira’s hand under the table.

Even without full contact, they were always in contact, his thumb brushing her knuckles, her knee bumping his under the table. The quietest tether.

At one point, Mira caught Paige watching. Not bitter. Just… taking it in.

Eventually, Rowan stood.

He hadn’t planned it. But his heart was full, and he wanted it said.

“I’ve spent a lot of years wondering what real peace looked like,” he began. “I used to think it was quiet. Still. Maybe a little lonely. But now I think… it’s this. A table full of people you love. Chaos. Burned yams. New beginnings.”

Everyone laughed.

“I’m grateful for this family. For the old parts, the new parts, the found parts. And for the ones who’ve taught me that love doesn’t have to look like a second chance, it can look like rebuilding a new life with familiar bones.”

Mira’s heart thudded. Her eyes met his.

And then, softer, Rowan’s eyes only on her: “And to the people who show up and remind us it’s safe to want and to love.”

Mira blinked, swallowed, and squeezed his hand under the table when he sat back down beside her.

He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, whispering, “I love you.”

Her father shouted “Here here!” across the table, lifting his glass. Mira rolled her eyes, but she was smiling so hard it hurt.

---

Letters from The Clever Confidante: “Gratitude Grown Wild”
On the kind of thanks you don’t send in a card

I’ve been thinking about gratitude lately.
Not the polite kind.
Not the kind you say because it’s November and someone passed the mashed potatoes.

I’m talking about the messy, complicated, soul-deep kind.

The kind that comes after the storm.
The kind that grows in places you didn’t expect; sideways, wild, untamed.
The kind that bubbles up in you, uncontained, because life turned out bigger, grander, and fuller than you’d dared to believe.

I’m grateful for people who stayed when I didn’t make it easy.
I’m grateful for mornings that don’t ache anymore.
For laughter that sneaks up on you.
For second cups of coffee poured without asking.

I’m thankful for teenage honesty, too.
Like the time Pepper looked around a room full of people who didn’t share her DNA and whispered, “This feels monumental, mom.”

I nodded and smiled, but inside, my heart had grown to bursting.

Because I knew what she meant.
It wasn’t perfect. The potatoes were lumpy. The playlist was chaotic. Someone spilled cider on the couch.
But it was ours.

And sometimes, that’s what childhood should be made of, the moments that don’t look like a picture frame.

I’m thankful for the girl I used to be, the one who wanted so badly to be chosen.
And for the woman I’ve become, who knows how to choose herself.

I’m thankful for real peace. Not the kind that’s quiet and lonely, but the kind that’s loud with life.
A table full of voices.
A kitchen that smells like garlic and cinnamon and something burned.
Hands brushing yours under the table, just to say: I’m still here.

And most of all,
I’m grateful I didn’t give up before this part of the story.
I almost did.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤️

If you’ve ever wondered whether you deserve a seat at the table—this is your reminder: you do.Share this with someone who’s held space for you.
(Or tell me below: When did you first feel truly wanted, not just welcomed? I’d love to hear your story.)

☁️ New here? You can start Mira’s Story from the beginning with Chapter Zero.

➡️✨ Continue Mira’s Story with Chapter Thirty-Two: Call It What It Is

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