I told him no; I wasn’t chasing something I didn’t understand.I just wanted to figure out who I was.I wanted to make choices in my life based on experiences and love what I end up doing.
I asked if I could leave a few of my things at his place, if it could be my permanent address, a place to call home.
He said,“So you can break my heart like your mom did?”
That was the last thing he ever said to me.
I left.
I left without telling him I had just buried Mom, and I needed him.I left with my head held high and my heart bruised but still beating.
And I did travel to all of the places on my list.I worked until my hands blistered and my back ached, and I learned what real tired felt like.
I fell in love with the quiet.With dirt and animals and early mornings.It was honest work.It grounded me in a way people never did.
Because I had learned that people rarely took the time to figure out who they were or what they actually wanted.Most chase something they don't understand.People can be selfish in ways animals and nature aren't.Don't get me wrong, I love people.I just have a low threshold for insincere ones.I sought out therapy after my mom died, and it helped me understand myself and what I need from people in my life and what I don't.
Now I’m standing in front of the same house, a year into my veterinary technician program in Summit City, about forty-five minutes from here.From this cluster of small towns in western Canada.The place looks smaller than I remembered.The roofline is sagging, and the wood exterior has seen better days.There’s a single light over the porch that still works, flickering against the early dusk.
When Mr.Novak called, I almost didn’t answer.
He said he’d been my father’s lawyer and that he'd heard so much about me.After a moment of awkward silence, he broke the news.He told me my dad had passed away weeks before.
Weeks.
And that he’d left me everything.
I remember sitting in that café in the heart of Hawthorne Ridge, hands around a coffee I didn’t drink, while Mr.Novak slid a folder across the table.
He talked in that calm, deliberate tone lawyers use when they’re trying not to make anything worse.He said my dad had wanted to call me, but it got too late, too fast.And he didn't want me to forgive him for his mistakes because he was dying.That he’d hoped this house would bring me back home someday.That he hoped I would finally be happy here.
What he didn't know is that some of my happiest childhood memories were from here.That I would have been happy here had he let me call this house my home.
I had to look away from the man in front of me because I hadn't cried yet, but I felt it coming.I blinked back the tears, and my eyes settled on a beautiful blonde woman behind the counter, and a little boy with a floppy mess of blonde waves refilling sugar jars together while he spoke animatedly, and she listened intently with a warm smile.
We finished our meeting with him handing me the house keys and another envelope with extra keys that he promised were labelled.
Now, I’ve been standing here for ten minutes with those folders in my car and the house keys in my hand.I should go inside.See what’s waiting for me.
But I can’t move.
The past feels thicker here, heavy, like the air just before a storm.
The crunch of tires on gravel pulls me out of it.I turn as an old truck rolls up the drive, mud splattered across the side.An older couple climbs out.The woman gets to me first; she's on the shorter side, with a mess of brown hair tied back in a low bun with silver streaks, smiling like she’s known me forever.
“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up,” she says, voice bright.“You’re absolutely beautiful, Tessa.You look just like your mama.”
I blink, unsure what to say.I don’t recognize her.
I watch as a man who, I assume, is her husband, catches up.He looks like a farmer.His face is warm and kind, but you can tell he spends his days out in the elements, like he's worked hard most of his life, but loves it.He wipes his hands on jeans that look lived in, and something about him helps me relax.Looking at me quickly mouthing'sorry', before turning to the woman beside him with a soft look so full of love, “Judy, she probably doesn’t remember us.”
He offers his hand, and I shake it.His palm is rough and warm.“I’m Dean Palmer, this is my wife, Judy.We used to be friends with your parents, before you and your mom left.”
Something flickers in my memory, a barn, a creek, kids laughing, a potluck maybe.
Dean’s eyes soften.“When your dad got sick, he told us he was leaving everything to you.Said he hoped it would bring you back to this community.Back home to family.”
I swallow hard.I don't know what to say to that.I don't have any family left.“He didn’t call.I didn't know.”
