Dean nods, jaw working.“He wanted to.I thought he would.But by the time he built up the courage to call and say goodbye, it was already hard for him to talk.We… we tried, Tessa.”
Judy steps in gently.“We know you just got here, but if you need anything, we’re just down the road.We are happy to help with whatever you need, or we can send one of our boys over.I don't know if you remember them; you spent some time with them when you were little.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.“I’m not sure I’m staying yet.I’m still trying to process all this.”
“That’s fair.”Judy smiles again, softer this time.“Still, it’s good to see you back, sweetheart.”
She gets a look on her face and runs back to the truck, pulling out a basket of goodies.
"We wanted to make sure you were taken care of, so a couple of us put together a little welcome back basket for you."
I smile and try to fight back the tears; my emotions are making themselves known.You can feel the love and support coming off them in waves, and the way Mr.Palmer talked about my father."Thank you, that is very kind."
They leave, Dean all but dragging Judy back to the truck, the sound of rumbling on the gravel road until it disappears behind the trees.
The quiet comes back, heavier now.
I look at the house again.
The porch light flickers once, then steadies.
Maybe that’s enough of a sign.
So, I shift the gift basket to my hip, grab my bag, and the two envelopes, which feel heavier than they are.
I take a breath, adjust my grip on the keys, and walk toward the door.
Chapter 3 - Tessa
1 Year Ago
The house smells like old wood and apples that were put away and forgotten.
I’ve been here a few days, and it still feels like I’m walking through an old photograph.The edges are a little soft, and the colours are too warm.When I move, dust lifts in sunbeams like I’ve disturbed something sacred.
After placing my bag at the foot of the stairs, I made my way into the kitchen because kitchens tell the truth about a house.
The old wood-burning cookstove sits nestled in the stone fire back, black as a night sky with scuffed silver edges where hands have brushed it for years.A kettle rests on one back burner, a cast-iron skillet on the front, like someone used them yesterday and set them there to cool and never came back.Bold wooden beams run overhead, and the space is a mix of dark woods and stone.A massive butcher block island is the centrepiece of the space.I move further into the space, my hand drifting to edges and divots in the wood that tell their own story.A smaller farm-style table sits off to the side in front of a big window overlooking the now overgrown brush.
I place the basket and envelopes on the table and continue to scan the space.
One mug sits on the counter by a window, clean but turned upside down to keep the dust out.Practical, like him.
I don’t rush.I’m not built that way.
I take in my surroundings and let the memories come.My finger drags against the dust-covered surfaces.Intuitively, I open a drawer and grab a knit washcloth.I run the damp cloth along surfaces, let the repetition calm my head.The cloth comes away gray, then lighter, then almost clean.The window latch sticks and then gives; cold air slips in, smells like thawing pine and earth.The view from this window hasn’t changed.A wide-open field, a thin fringe of trees, the suggestion of a river beyond.
There’s a shallow basket by the back door, I imagine Dad keeping his keys in it.I grab the envelope and empty it into the basket; neatly labelled keys, with masking tape and careful block letters, tumble out.FRONT DOOR.BACK.BARN.TRUCK.MAILBOX.SPARE.
Of course, he labelled them.Of course, he made it simple.It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t have a name for.
I leave the basket where it belongs as I walk deeper into the house.
The hallway is narrow.The runner rug is worn down the center where feet have passed a thousand times.I flick on the light; it buzzes alive and casts everything in a thin gold.
Upstairs, my childhood room still wears the same wallpaper, small blue flowers on cream.Time has peeled it in long curls near the window, like it’s unwrapping itself for me.He never changed it.Not the crooked bookshelf with pencil marks on the side where height was measured and then argued over, not the hook on the back of the door where I used to hang my backpack.
I press my palm against the wall.It’s cool and a little soft, like it’s tired.
