Our home has a wooden table, a jar crowded with wildflowers, and open land beyond the windows. We take long walks with Rhys and shorter ones with Irene.
Some evenings we sit on the back porch with Rhys and his mother, passing a joint between us. We get silly, then hungry, and make brownies in a kitchen that never cools down. We sleep in the room where Rhys kept his high-school soccer trophies rather than drive back to our apartment above the stationery shop downtown.
Our Save the Date stays on Irene's refrigerator, right where everyone can see it.
I learn which boards creak on the stairs. In the morning I can get downstairs without waking anyone, take the Jeep into town, and return with a sweet latte for me, black coffee for them, and orange-cinnamon buns. Rhys takes a bite; I finish what's left.
On some walks I pass through stands of fir and aspen. A shop nearby sells sauces, syrups, and oils. Rhys and I sample enough maple syrups to lose track, then buy one smoked over a fire and aged in bourbon barrels. For Irene's birthday we make pancakes. She tastes the syrup and says it reminds her of camping.
She starts to cry. She and Hank used to camp when they were dating and had almost no money. Then they kept doing it after decades of marriage, when money was still tight. Rhys goes to her and puts an arm around her shoulders. She pats his arm until she can speak again.
Watching them, I understand how a memory can bring laughter and grief at once. I hope I get to know that kind of love. I believe I chose the right life.
I think about my parents, too. Dad spent nearly every weekday at a job he didn't enjoy and rarely discussed. I understand now that he gave up something important and accepted the cost because he believed we needed him to. Mom left one home to follow him and never found another place that felt like hers.
At the shop I buy four bottles of the smoky maple syrup: one for Dane and Livia, one for Bianca and Jules, and one apiece for my parents. I want each of them to have plenty. I want them to get the things they have been missing.
I still worry sometimes that my parents won't understand my choices, or me, or that I won't find a place in life that feels like mine. When that happens, I remember the cottage—not only the building, but the space beneath the stairs that smelled of Rhys; the bright dock; Bianca asking about the other lives we might have had; Dane and Livia arguing over gin rummy; Jules singing an old song into a wooden spoon.
I remember sitting shoulder to shoulder on an extra-long twin bed in a stale dorm room, scarves pinned above us to soften the ceiling lights while we watched a movie. I picture a farm in northern Michigan that has become less run-down over the years. I remember the first time I held my goddaughter Zora. Her tiny fingers curled near mine, and her mother's brown eyes met my gaze. I could hardly believe she was there.
I think about the drive from Seattle with Mom, when we packed the last of my things into a rented truck. We stayed in shabby motels and watched old television episodes while eating snacks from vending machines. Much of the trip was uncomfortable, but those aren't the moments I hold onto.
Instead, I remember Mom telling me about the games she and her sister played as children in the woods near their home. They crushed berries and wild onions together, rubbed the mixture on their foreheads, and pretended it made them invisible.
She asked me to tell her the whole story of how I met Rhys. When I finished, she cried and said she only wanted me to be happy.
I asked her whether she wanted that for herself, too. She looked surprised by the question, as though she'd never considered it. For years, I'd lain awake in my yellow bedroom wishing for her happiness. Now I understand that I couldn't choose it for her.
“Mom, you have to find what makes you happy,” I told her.
Nadia and I still text now and then. Most of it is small talk, but I'm trying to know her better. I'm hopeful.
Sometimes I imagine what's ahead: the old ranch we put a deposit on, now used for weddings and other events. I picture an early fall ceremony, cool air, dry leaves, an old lace cloth over one of Rhys's tables, and blankets set out for our guests as the sun goes down. I also picture the bachelorette trip Livia has begun planning.
But when I need to feel safe, I think of home. Whatever the weather—deep snow or dry fields under the sun—I climb the steps and unlock the door. My chest loosens. I know what waits inside.
Rhys will be there, with sawdust on his clothes and the smell of pine from the workshop. Before I see him, I know I want to be with him.