“How did you do it?” The question comes out before I can properly frame it, carrying an edge of desperation I’d hoped to hide better. “When Bastian left for the band, when he was gone for months at a time. How did you cope?” My fingers clutch my mug too tightly.
Her smile carries a trace of sadness that makes my chest ache. “Oh, honey,” she says softly, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers. “It was never easy. But Vermont is where his heart is. He will always come home.” The certainty in her voice settles something inside me.
“But he was so young,” I persist, needing to understand how she managed what feels impossible to me now. “Barely more than a kid himself. Didn’t you worry about…everything?” The last word carries the weight of all my current fears—overeager fans, accidents on stage or on the road.
“Every single day,” she admits, even if her smile never leaves her face. “But worrying doesn’t change anything except how much joy you can find in the moments you do have together.” She traces a gentle pattern against my knuckles, her touchcarrying comfort I didn’t realize I needed. “So I learned to make every return special.”
She rises suddenly. “Did I ever tell you about his first singing competition?” The question feels rhetorical as she crosses to a cabinet I’ve never seen opened. “He was barely six. A tiny thing with the biggest voice you’ve ever heard.”
The cabinet doors open with a slight protest, revealing a collection of items I’ve never seen before. Trophies line the shelves. Sylvie’s hands move with reverent care as she lifts the first one with its silver slightly tarnished.
“Elementary school talent show,” she explains, setting the trophy before me. “Sang ‘You Are My Sunshine’ because it was the only song he knew all the words to.” Her laugh carries pure joy. “Brought the whole audience to tears. Not because he was particularly good yet, but because he put his whole heart into every note.”
More trophies appear on the table between us, each matched with a story. “This one was from the county fair. He was eight and insisted on wearing cowboy boots despite the fact that he was singing a classical piece. And this…” Her hands lift a slightly larger award. “State competition when he was twelve. That was the first time we realized he might have a real future in music.”
My fingers trace the engravings that mark achievements from before I was born or when I was just a baby, evidence of the path that would eventually lead him away from Vermont but always bring him back.
“He used to practice in the barn,” Sylvie continues. “Said the animals were the best audience because they never cared if he hit the wrong note.” Her smile grows softer. “Would spend hours up in the hayloft, singing to whoever would listen.”
“That has to be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Some people are born with gifts too big for small towns to hold. It doesn’t mean they love those towns any less. It just means they have to share that gift with the wider world.”
Her hand finds mine again as she continues, “But Vermont is in his blood, same as his music. He might fly away, but his roots are here. In this land, in this family.” Her eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “In the people who love him enough to let him go when he needs to, knowing he’ll always find his way back.”
The words hit me harder than I expected, making me blink against the sudden heat behind my eyes. Because this is the truth I’ve been avoiding—loving Bastian means accepting all the parts of who he is, including his need to share his gift with the world beyond our small corner.
“Besides,” Sylvie adds with a smile that carries a hint of mischief, “absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or, in our case, makes celebrations better because we never knew exactly when they’d happen.” Her expression grows more serious as she continues, “We had Christmas in July once because the European tour schedule meant he missed the actual holiday. Thanksgiving in September, and I’m sure we did Easter in the summer once.”
“Wasn’t that hard though? Never knowing for sure when he’d be home?” And this is one of my biggest fears. That I will still be on my own for all the moments that count.
“Of course it was hard,” she acknowledges, squeezing my hand gently. “But joy isn’t about having perfect timing. It’s about making moments count when you have them.”
“Thank you,” I tell Sylvie quietly as she begins returning trophies to their cabinet home. The words feel inadequate against the weight of what she’s shared, but her smile suggests she understands everything I can’t quite voice.
“Anytime, honey,” she says. “Now, how about some of that cinnamon bread? Can’t solve life’s big questions on an empty stomach.”
I laugh. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The bread tastes like comfort as we settle into lighter conversation about the festival and my parents’ plans to visit over Christmas.
Eventually, I stand to leave, thanking Sylvie with a hug that lingers a moment longer than usual.
Her words about Bastian replay in my head as I skip the path that leads to my house and instead stay on Hall land.
The barn’s weathered red boards come into sight. Somewhere inside those walls, the man I love has no idea I’m approaching with a heart that feels too full and words that feel too empty.
“I love you, Bastian. I love you enough to let you go sometimes.” I try the words on for size. The declaration feels closer to the truth I’m trying to express, while anxiety still churns beneath the surface.
My fingers shake slightly as I reach for the barn door, my rehearsed speech vanishing like dew at first light. Because this is the moment when practice meets reality, when my carefully planned words will probably desert me completely.
The barn smells of fresh hay and new life. Bastian stands between stalls, his attention focused on the latest additions to the growing family while Gouta prances between spaces like a self-appointed supervisor. The sight makes something catch in my throat. This man who belongs to the world somehow looks perfectly at home among barn animals.
He spots me before I can properly gather my thoughts, his whole face lighting up with a smile that still makes my stomach flip. “Hey, you,” he says, already moving toward me. “Was just thinking about you.”
His kiss lands gentle against my lips as his hands find familiar places on my waist.
“Gouta’s appointed herself official calf instructor,” he tells me, gesturing to the goat who’s currently standing on her hind legs to peer into the nearest stall. “Pretty sure she’s giving lectures on proper feeding techniques.”
