Chapter 1
Mia
With every season, I transform, letting go of old leaves to make way for new life.
-The Forest-
“I called the school today to check on your scholarship,” my dad says from beside me as I sit on the bench.
No, hi how are you?
It was a matter of time before he found out. Even though I’m not facing him, I can picture his furrowed brow and the tension in his jaw. I rub my hand into my lap, bracing myself for what’s coming.
“When were you going to tell me that you dropped out of med school?” I don’t miss the disappointment in his voice. This is exactly why I didn’t say anything.
I glance up to look at him. Deep brown eyes staring at me. The silver thread on his dreadlocks and beard is more pronounced as if grief has touched them too.
My gaze shifts to the mini waterfall, the one mom built in the backyard. She loved waterfalls, another thing we had in common. I remember how she carefully picked each rock, making sure there weren’t any weird bumps or holes because of my trypophobia. “I already knew how you were going to react. Considering everything that was going on, I didn’t think it was the right time.”
“Did you drop out because of your mom?” I can hear the effort it takes him to stay composed. The pain seeps through his harsh tone. We haven’t really talked about her since she passed. This isn’t about Mom. It’s about me trying to figure out what I want. Not what he wanted me to be.
“Yes, and no. Last year, when we took that trip, I told her I couldn’t do this anymore. Medicine is not for me, Dad.” My throat tightens, and my eyes well up. But I refuse to let the tears fall.
“I don’t understand. You chose to study it.” Chose is an understatement when he gave me no choice.
You need an actual career, Mia. Writing is a hobby. I know what you’re going to say. Your mom is a successful author. But your mom has a gift.
Even though he didn’t actually say it, his words implied that my mom had a gift, and I didn’t. Over time, I’ve started to believe it myself. Making me doubt myself.
We never talked about it, but he’s one of the reasons why I gave up on pursuing a career in writing. I resent him a little for that.
“You said I needed an actual career.” Remember, Dad.
“Don’t tell me you dropped out to become an author.” He shakes his head.
“No.” My eyes drift to the mini waterfall again. The stream rushes over the rocks, the sound gurgles as it meets the pond below, filling the quiet air. Dad wanted me to be a doctor like him, but I can’t. Not without having anxiety attacks every time we have labs because of my trypophobia.
“I’m not letting you throw your life away, Mia.” His words come out sharp and loud, but he takes a moment to compose himself. “I’ve talked to admission and explained that you were going through a tough time because of your mom. If you come back next fall, you get to keep your scholarship.”
I look up at him, a six foot tall black man staring down at me wearing his doctor coat. My dad can be intimidating when he looks at me like that. “But—”
“No, but. You have the summer to figure out what you want to do with your life.” He places a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze before walking away.
No, I love you?
Figuring out what I want? What is that exactly?
His footsteps fade into the distance. My dad is a great man, the best of husbands. My mom was his universe. He always brought her flowers, her favorite macaroons from the only bakery she loves, which is a 45 minute drive from our house. He’s everything I want in a husband one day. I just wished he was a better father.
Although he was born in the US, he grew up in a Haitian household. He believes in tough love, and what they think is best for their kids, so you’re either raised to become a doctor, a lawyer, or a nurse.
I missed the relationship we had when I was a little girl. He was my hero. Even when he worked long hours at the hospital, he would always make time for us. As I grew older, we grew apart when his expectations of me overshadowed everything. I hate that it was all about what he wanted, never what I wanted.
Closing my eyes,I inhale the fresh air around me. The scent of jasmine from the garden and the sound of rushing water are comforting. But inside, I’m drowning in her memories. My heart pounds against my chest as her absence suffocates me, making it hard to catch my breath.
When rocks get in your way, be a waterfall . My mom’s words replay in my mind, a reminder to keep moving, to flow over the rocks that stand in my way and carve out my path.
My head tilts back, eyes searching the blue sky; too clear, not a single gray cloud to mirror the storm that’s raging inside of me.
Is any of this even real? It’s been three months, yet it seems like yesterday.
I sit there for a few minutes before walking back inside the house, my feet leading me of their own accord. I mindlessly pass by the fireplace, where Mom and I spent countless hours lost in a book. Then we have the wall with the family portraits. Pictures of me as a baby, my high school graduation, and Mom and Dad smiling as he lifts her off the ground, her curls falling over her shoulders. My mom is French with beautiful light brown skin, brown eyes, and curly hair.
Turning around the corner, my hand reaches for the knob, the metal cool under my fingertips. Moving closer, the window is open with a view of the garden.
There’s a desk in front of it with a laptop, and piles of papers. In the corner, there’s a bookshelf. I haven’t been here since she passed. This is the room where all the magic happened.
On top of the piles, there’s a box, and it’s addressed to me. I move towards it to get a closer look. My fingers trace her handwriting on top of the lid. The fear of what’s in the box tightens my throat, a rock blocking my airway making it hard to breathe. The walls are closing in on me.
I pull my hand away, placing it around my neck, and the other on my hip, forcing myself to breathe. The air is thick and suffocating.
I can’t do this.
My hand reaches for it again, then pulls back, tightening into a fist. I don’t think I’m ready to find out what’s inside.
Instead, I walk over to the bookshelves, running my fingers along the smooth spines of the books she had published. Many of which are best sellers.
My eyes keep glancing back at the box. My fingers itch to open it, but what if what’s inside changed everything? What if it makes me miss her even more? It feels like the last thread connecting me to her, and I’m terrified of what might happen if I pull it.
Returning to the desk, I pace back and forth in front of the box. Staring at it like it’s a bomb that may go off any second now. I stop, shaking both my hands to ease the nerves.
I got this.
Just open the box, Mia.
Here we go. I move closer and open it, my hands trembling.
Inside are letters, each with different titles. The first one says Open First . I grab it and move to sit on the small couch in the corner, wrapping myself in the throw blanket that still smells like her.
I open the letter, my eyes scanning her beautiful handwriting.
Salut mon amour.
C’est Maman .
The words blur as tears pool in my eyes. I press the letter to my chest, curling into a ball as if I can somehow bring her back to me. For a second I pretend she’s here with me.
Coucou Maman.