The cabin’s familiar scents of pine and woodsmoke fill my nose as Karan’s nineteen-year-old cousin Aisha sits on the couch near the fire stove.
“How’s my favourite baby cousin?” she asks Cayce, who is all too happy to rush toward her to play.
“Rachel, honey.” Martine’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Where are you putting the boys’ snacks? They should be somewhere accessible.”
I close my eyes briefly and count to five in my head. “The blue basket on the counter, like at home.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t the top cabinet be better? Then they won’t be tempted all day.”
Before I can respond and argue that she literally just said the snacks should be accessible, she’s already rearranging everything. The sound of containers being shifted makes my jaw clench.
“Mommy, look!” Corey holds up a framed photo he’s found, his small fingers smudging the glass. “Is that you and Daddy?”
My throat tightens as I look at the image. Karan and me, maybe six years ago, standing in front of this very fireplace. His arms are wrapped around me from behind, his chin resting on my head. We’re both laughing at something off-camera. Our joy shines, even through the slightly faded photograph.
I was pregnant in that picture, though the bump was hardly visible. Our smiles held all our hopes and dreams.
“Yes, baby.” I take the photo from him gently. “That’s us.”
“Daddy looks different,” Cayce observes, peering at the picture. “His tummy was bigger.”
Karan did lose some weight this year. I never cared about his weight, but now, it’s yet another worry on my shoulders. Another sign that this job is leeching the life out of him.
A loud crash from the kitchen saves me from responding. Anjali has dropped a pot while unpacking with her husband Suresh.
“Sorry!” she calls out, but she’s giggling. Suresh joins in while Aisha rolls her eyes at her mother’s clumsiness.
“Auntie Anjali has butter fingers,” Aisha tells my boys, and soon their laughter mingles with everyone else’s, turning the cabin into a symphony of joy I wish I could join.
“Children should help in the kitchen,” Surinder comments from his perch by the window, his tone heavy with meaning. “It teaches responsibility.”
I bite back a retort about how my children are five and already dealing with enough changes. Instead, I focus on unpacking their clothes, knowing Martine will probably rearrange those too when I’m not looking.
The snow falls harder outside, thick flakes obscuring the view of the bay of beautiful Cull’s Harbour. Somewhere out there, a ferry cuts through dark waters, carrying more holiday travelers toward their own complicated family gatherings.
I wonder if any of them are also planning to end their marriage when it’s all over.
A day and a half crawls by in a blur of forced smiles and careful navigation around Martine’s ‘helpful’ suggestions. The twins’ excitement grows with each passing hour, their questions about Daddy’s arrival becoming more frequent, more urgent.
When I finally hear the crunch of tires on snow, my whole body tenses.
The boys freeze mid-play, their heads snapping toward the sound like synchronized puppets. Then Cayce drops his toy dragon, and Corey abandons his puzzle.
“Daddy!” They bolt for the door as it swings open.
A blast of frigid air sweeps in, carrying snowflakes and the scent of winter. And there he is, filling the doorframe. Snow dusts his dark hair wrapped in a bun and catches in his beard, his cheeks red from the wind.
Our eyes meet over the boys’ heads as he scoops them both up, one in each arm. Despite everything, my breath catches. He looks exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but he’s still heartbreakingly handsome.
Still the man who’s owned my heart since I first laid eyes on him.
“Oh, my boys… I missed you so much!” His voice is rough with emotion as he hugs our sons close.
They cling to him like little monkeys, talking over each other in their excitement to tell him everything he’s missed.
“The ferry was huge!”
“We saw whales!”
