“Of course she will,” Greta promises me, though we both know it’s something she can’t guarantee. “You’re her mom.”
“I’m the woman who—as far as she’s concerned—just broke up her home and took her away from everything she’s ever known.”
“No.” She pokes my chest. My heart. “You’re the woman who showed her that your happiness—herhappiness, someday—matters. She may not realize it yet, but you just showed her how to take care of herself, even when it hurts.” Greta’s sleepy eyes search mine, trying to make me believe her words. And I do. Deep, deep down, I know she’s right. I just wish I could feel it right now.
At some point, during one of our late-night fits of giggles over a ridiculous memory, I realize how much I needed this. How much I needed her to be here. To remind me that some things aren’t changing—that this friendship, this constant I’ve had my entire life, is still here. I don’t know how she knew I’d need her, but somehow, she did.
The next morning Greta and Taylor are baking cinnamon rolls together, which allows me a chance to step outside and take a walk around the cabin, through the meadow, past the giant oak tree and the old willow.
I stop by Grandma’s grave and pull the weeds that have sprouted up around her stone. I wonder if she knows I’m here. Back. That I’ve returned to Foxglove, for however long. I can’t help finding comfort in the idea she’s still around, like she promised. Watching me. Protecting me.
I think she’d be happy to have Foxglove occupied again. I sit next to the grave and twirl stems of wildflowers together, my fingers stiffer than they once were, the movements less fluid. Still, I manage a loose braid to lay on her grave as I promise to visit again soon.
I stroll through the meadow of my childhood, running my fingers through the tall grass. The weeds grab at my jeans and ankles, scratching my exposed skin.
The air here feels different. Charged. I’d forgotten how much I love this place, how alive it makes me feel. The more I explore, the more I want to see all of it again. The more I want to feel the way I did when I was a child walking this same path. Wild, free, safe. Home.
Soon I will take Taylor through the woods, show her the creek that runs through them and the little paths I used to walk. I wish I had brought her here as a child, and for the first time, all the reasons and excuses I had not to bring her feel irrelevant. Every child should have a place like this.
The world surrounding the cabin is filled with sounds, the dry branches of the willow tree swaying in the wind, the leaves from the oak brushing up against each other as if whispering about my homecoming. Crickets chirp and frogs croak, and a metallic green beetle buzzes in the air, landing on my shoulder for only a brief moment. I resist the terrible urge to brush it away.
The air is heavy and damp with morning dew, and it clings to my clothes. Looking back, I survey the house and the property, deciding how much work I have ahead of me. The stone cabinappears as sturdy and strong as ever, but it could stand to be power washed and the wooden support beams along the porch need to be stained. I should probably have the metal roof inspected soon for any damage or rust.
Greta’s black Lexus is parked next to ours in the driveway, partially in the grass, which explains why I couldn’t see it through the window last night.
I cross the rest of the meadow slowly, feeling an odd mixture of stress and peace, as if they’re fighting inside of me to take up space.
At the edge of the woods, I stop.
Up ahead, a flash of movement catches my eye.
My breath lodges in my throat as I try to think, to process. I’m out here alone. If I try to run, I might fall. I might not be fast enough.
It could be an animal.
It could be a person.
It could be a killer.
It could be whoever was in my house.
I weigh my options. I could call out, or I could turn away and pretend I didn’t see or hear anything.
When I see the movement a second time, someone up ahead, I clear my throat, raising my voice. This is my home. I don’t deserve to feel unsafe here. I’ve never before felt unsafe here. “Is someone there?”
For a moment, the person is still. Then I see them moving again.
“Hey there. Sorry if I startled ya.” From the shadows, a man emerges. He looks to be around my mom’s age. His face is worn and weathered from the sun, and he’s got odd-colored hair—I can’t tell if it’s gray or the ashiest shade of blond.
He moves closer, and I take a step back.
“Can I help you?”
A small smile tilts one corner of his lips upward. “I’m Conrad. Guessing you’re Corinne.”
I’m silent, trying to piece together who this is and why he knows who I am.
“Your mom has me watch over the place. I live just down the way.” He points over his shoulder. “She mentioned a few months ago you might be moving back in soon.” His gaze trails along the cabin over my shoulder. “Guess that’s now.”
