"Feeling better?" I asked, studying his color. Pink cheeks, clear eyes. Good signs.
"Yeah. Can we practice my slapshot later?"
"We'll see how you're feeling."
We both knew that meant no, but Finn didn't argue. He'd learned to read my fears as clearly as I read his symptoms.
As he ate, chattering about a science project on Mars, I watched him and made silent promises. To keep him safe. To be enough. To somehow fill the space Sarah left behind.
Outside, snow blanketed our mountain town in pristine white, but I knew better than to trust pretty surfaces. Danger lurked everywhere—in cold air, in exercise, in anything that pushed his fragile lungs too hard.
I was preparing for battles I could control because I couldn't control the ones that mattered—where breath became the enemy, where my son's body betrayed him, where all my preparation might not be enough.
But I'd keep fighting anyway. It's what Sarah would have wanted. It's all I knew how to do.
Chapter 2: Serena
My car protested as I navigated another switchback, its engine whining about the altitude and the boxes crammed into every available space. Through the windshield, Wrightwood revealed itself in layers—first the trees, towering pines dressed in snow like something from a Christmas card, then the glimpses of homes nestled into the mountainside, and finally the town itself, quaint and postcard-perfect in the valley below.
"You can do this," I told myself, the words fogging in the cold air since my heater had given up few hours ago. "New life, new start, new you."
The GPS announced my destination in a half-mile, and my stomach performed a little flip of anticipation mixed with terror. I'd rented the cabin sight unseen, desperate for distance from San Antonio, from my ex-fiancé Marcus, from the suffocating box of a life I'd spent three years trying to fit into.
"A cabin in the mountains? Really, Serena? What are you, some kind of hermit now?"Marcus's voice echoed in my memory, dripping with that particular brand of condescension he'd perfected."You'll be back in a week when you realize there's no organic grocery stores or yoga studios."
I turned onto the narrow dirt road the GPS indicated, my car struggling with the grade. Trees pressed close on both sides, creating a tunnel of green and white that felt like entering another world. Then the road opened into a small clearing, and there it was—my new home.
The A-frame cabin looked exactly like the photos, maybe better. Warm wood siding, a stone chimney already releasing a welcoming curl of smoke (the property manager had been agodsend), and a small deck that faced the mountains. Through the trees to the left, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a modern architectural magazine spread—all glass and sharp angles. Some tech millionaire's weekend retreat, probably. At least I'd have neighbors if I needed help.
I parked and sat for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel. Three months ago, I'd been living in Marcus's downtown San Antonio loft, asking permission to hang a single photo, defending my career choice at every dinner party where he'd introduce me as "Serena, she works with special needs kids—basically a saint, though I keep telling her she could do so much more."
Now I was here, in a town I'd found by closing my eyes and pointing at a map, about to start over at twenty-seven with nothing but what fit in my car and a teaching position that Marcus would have called "career suicide."
The cold hit me the moment I opened the car door, sharp and clean in a way city air never was. I grabbed the first box—labeled "KITCHEN ESSENTIALS" in my neat handwriting—and made my way to the front door. The property manager had left it unlocked as promised, and I stepped into warmth that smelled of wood smoke and possibility.
The interior was even more charming than I'd hoped. Exposed beams created geometric patterns against the peaked ceiling, a stone fireplace dominated one wall, and the kitchen, though small, had a window that framed the mountains like art. It was the complete opposite of Marcus's sterile loft with its white walls and sharp edges, where I wasn't allowed to cook fish because the smell lingered, or burn candles because they left soot marks.
"Oh, you're going to be perfect," I whispered to the space, setting down my box and spinning slowly to take it all in.
A car horn honked outside, making me jump. Through the window, I saw Maria's ancient sedan pulling up, her wild curls visible even through the windshield. My best friend had insisted on driving up separately, claiming she needed the solo drive to "process my bestie's descent into mountain madness."
"Sweet Mother of Fleece, it's cold!" Maria burst through the door without knocking, arms full of bags. "I brought wine, chocolate, and those cheese crackers you pretend you don't love. Also, emergency supplies in case you decide to go full mountain woman and stop shaving your legs."
"Maria!" I laughed, the sound echoing in the empty space. It had been so long since I'd laughed without calculating whether it was too loud, too unladylike, too much.
"Don't 'Maria' me. This place is adorable and you know it." She set her bags on the counter and pulled me into a fierce hug. "How are you really? And don't give me the 'I'm fine' bullshit."
I leaned into her embrace, breathing in her familiar perfume— something expensive she treated herself to every Christmas. "I'm... processing. It feels surreal, you know? Like I'm going to wake up and Marcus will be standing over me with that disappointed look, telling me I was dreaming again."
Maria pulled back, her dark eyes serious. "That asshole is 1,300 miles away. You're free, honey. Free to hang whatever you want on these walls, free to teach however you want, free to eat crackers in bed and leave dishes in the sink."
"Rebel behavior," I said, but I was smiling.
We spent the afternoon unpacking, Maria providing running commentary on everything from my "teacher sweater collection" to my "concerning number of books about trauma-informed education." She helped me arrange the small living room, hang curtains, and set up my bedroom in the loft space that looked out over the trees.
"Okay, show me the goods," she demanded once the essentials were unpacked. "The teaching stuff Marcus thought was beneath your potential."
I pulled out the box I'd hidden in my closet for two years, full of materials I'd developed for my special education students. Sensory tools, visual schedules, adapted curriculum guides, noise-dampening headphones, fidget toys, weighted lap pads. Each item connected to a student's breakthrough, a moment when learning clicked despite their challenges.
