Chapter 26
Snow
A week after Wyatt’s gallery show — after he stood in front of a room full of people and publicly declared that I helped him become who he really is, after I finally said “I love you” again — I turn onto the long, gravel driveway of my childhood home, and my heart feels like it might burst.
I’m bringing Wyatt home. Not for a stilted three-hour visit with someone tapping their foot impatiently.
Not while carrying shame about where I come from.
I’m bringing him home as myself, to the people who’ve always seen the real me, to show them the man who helped me find my way back to being that person.
The moment the tires crunch on the familiar gravel, a wave of emotion washes over me.
The farm is a chaotic, beautiful explosion of life — the polar opposite of the manicured Darlington estate.
Here, wildflowers grow in unruly patches along the fence line.
A rusty old tractor sits under a massive oak tree.
A flock of chickens scatters as my car approaches, their indignant clucking familiar and comforting.
This place is real, messy, and unapologetically itself.
Just like Wyatt helped me learn to be again.
“You okay?” Wyatt asks from the passenger seat, and I realize I’ve stopped the car in the middle of the driveway, just staring at the house.
“I haven’t been home in so long,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “Not really home. The Darlingtons made me ashamed of this place. Of my parents. Of where I come from.” I turn to look at him. “And now I’m bringing you here, and I’m not ashamed at all. I’m proud. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” he says softly, taking my hand. “This place is beautiful, Snow. It feels like you.”
His words echo what he said the first time I tried to explain my parents to him, nervous about what he’d think. He sees me. He’s always seen me.
I drive the rest of the way up to the house, my stomach fluttering with nerves, but it’s a different kind of nervousness than I felt the last time I brought a man home.
This isn’t fear that Wyatt will judge my family.
It’s the weight of what this moment means — I’m bringing him home.
I’m integrating him into the most authentic part of my life.
I’m telling my parents, without words, that this is real. That he’s the one.
My parents are waiting on the porch. My mom, with her long, silver-streaked braid and laugh lines, stands hand in hand with my dad. The moment I step out of the car, my mom envelops me in a fierce hug that smells of lavender and yeast.
“You’re home,” she whispers into my hair. “You’re finally home.” When she pulls back, her eyes are shining with tears. “And you brought him. The man of great declarations.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“Nico sent me a video,” my mom says with a knowing smile. “Of his gallery speech. The part where he talked about you helping him find his authentic self? I cried, sweetheart. Because that’s what you needed too — someone who saw your authentic self and loved it.”
I turn to make the introductions, my heart full. “Mom, Dad, this is Wyatt.”
My dad shakes Wyatt’s hand firmly, his gaze direct and assessing but warm. “Wyatt,” he says, his voice a rumbling baritone. “Any man who speaks about my Snow-flower the way you did at that gallery is welcome in my home.”
Wyatt looks slightly embarrassed but pleased. “Thank you, sir. She makes it easy to speak the truth.”
My mom steps forward and takes Wyatt’s hands in hers, studying them carefully. “You have good hands,” she says, a cryptic observation that somehow makes perfect sense coming from her. “You make things with them.”
Wyatt doesn’t even blink at the unconventional compliment. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, his Texas politeness charming against my parents’ bohemian earthiness. “I do.”
“Good,” she says with satisfaction. “You’re perfect for my Snow.” She meets his eyes.
“Mom,” I say, embarrassed, but Wyatt just smiles.
“I hope so,” he says sincerely.
My dad insists on giving Wyatt a tour of the farm, and I know this is the real test. They walk through the rows of vegetables, my dad explaining his philosophy of companion planting, of working with the land instead of against it.
I watch from the porch as Wyatt listens with genuine interest, asking smart questions about soil composition and crop rotation.
He doesn’t pretend to know things he doesn’t, and he doesn’t condescend.
He’s just respectful, curious, and present.
The real bonding happens in my dad’s workshop.
Through the window, I watch my dad show Wyatt the hand-carved wooden bowls he makes.
I see Wyatt’s face light up with recognition — a fellow craftsman.
They’re talking animatedly now, Wyatt describing his own furniture-building, my dad nodding with understanding.
Two men from completely different worlds, finding common ground in the grain of a piece of oak.
While the men are in the workshop, my mom leads me to her flower garden. We sit on an old, weathered bench, the same one where she taught me the names of the constellations when I was a little girl.
“He’s good for you,” my mom says, her gaze fixed on the bees buzzing around the lavender bushes. “I can see it in the way you move, the way you hold yourself. You’re not making yourself smaller anymore.”
“I didn’t realize I was doing that,” I admit.
“You were planted in a place with no sun,” she says, taking my hand. “And you did what you had to do to survive. But now you’re back in the light.” She turns to look at me, her eyes full of wisdom. “This man — he doesn’t try to dim your light. He helps you shine brighter.”
“I love him, Mom,” I say, and it feels important to say it out loud to her.
“I know you do, sweetheart.” She squeezes my hand. “And he loves you. Not the kind that demands you change or hide who you are. The kind that says ‘I see all of you and I choose all of you.’”
I feel tears pricking at my eyes. “I’m sorry I stayed away for so long. I’m sorry.”
She pulls me into a hug, her arms strong and comforting. “There’s no need for that. There is nothing to forgive. You’re home now. That’s what matters.”
She stands and hands me a small trowel. “Come,” she says. “Help me plant these new seedlings. It’s good to put your hands in the earth. It reminds you of what’s real.”
We work in comfortable silence, our hands in the rich, dark soil. And with each seedling I place in the ground, I feel like I’m planting a piece of myself back where it belongs. I’m reclaiming this part of me.
Later, we gather around the farmhouse table for dinner. The meal is simple — vegetable stew, fresh salad, and my mom’s warm, crusty bread. The conversation is easy, full of laughter and stories.
Wyatt fits in seamlessly, but not because he’s pretending or performing.
He’s just himself. He helps my dad carry food to the table.
He compliments my mom’s cooking with a sincerity that makes her beam.
He tells a funny story about his own family in Texas, about the time his dad tried to build a barbecue pit that ended up looking like a modernist sculpture.
“Your parents sound wonderful,” my mom says. “I’d love to meet them someday.”
“They’d love that,” Wyatt says, glancing at me with a smile. “They’ve been asking when Snow will visit Texas.”
My heart does a little flip. Meeting his parents in person. Another step forward, another integration of our lives. The thought doesn’t scare me. It feels right.
After dinner, my dad pulls out his guitar and sings an old folk song. We all join in, our voices blending in slightly off-key harmony. I look across the table at Wyatt, singing along even though he doesn’t know all the words, a happy smile on his face.
Later, as we’re getting ready to leave, my dad pulls me aside while Wyatt helps my mom pack up leftover bread for us to take home.
“That one’s a keeper, Snow-flower,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “He knows the value of things that can’t be bought.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Good.” He pulls me into a hug. “Don’t let fear make you hesitate. Not with this one. He’s the real thing.”
As we drive away from the farm, my heart full and the car filled with the scent of fresh-cut herbs from my mom’s garden, I think about my dad’s words. Don’t let fear make you hesitate.
I glance at Wyatt, at his profile in the dim light of the dashboard, and I realize something. The shadow of Preston — the shame and the fear and the feeling of not being good enough — is finally fading.