Chapter 2 - Tessa
The dirt is starting to thaw, soft enough that my boots sink with every step.
Spring is trying to happen, but winter hasn’t quite let go yet. The air smells like damp earth and frost-covered pine, and when I exhale, my breath still ghosts white.
I stand a few feet away from a front porch that feels both familiar and foreign, staring at the house that’s supposed to be mine now.
I haven’t seen it in years. It doesn’t feel like a memory so much as a ghost of one.
With fragments of laughter, sunlight through the kitchen window, my dad's chilli cooking on the stove, the warm corn bread he would bake in the cast iron pan in the old wood cook top, wood crackling in the fireplace and the sound of gravel under tires.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, remembering a tire swing out back and a river somewhere nearby. I remember my dad’s voice, low and certain, calling my name. The laugh lines that hugged his chocolate brown eyes.
And then I remember it all ending, my mom yelling from the car, telling me to hurry up, that we had to go.
They divorced when I was six. Messy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
My mom always wanted more, bigger, louder, shinier.
More cities, more chances, more people to tell her how right she was for leaving.
She was the type of woman who was never happy or settled.
I don't think she ever figured out what she was chasing.
And that, more than anything, I learned from my mom, taught me the kind of life I wanted to live.
My dad wanted quiet. A life he could hold in his hands. The life they had promised to build together. He never changed. He was the rock... a mountain really, and my mom, well, she was a tornado.
He tried to get me to come for the summer.
My mom always had an excuse: money, logistics, guilt.
She would threaten to make her full-time custody legal, and he didn't want to fight for me. Or so she said. The one summer I did come, it was awkward but… nice. He wasn’t a talker.
I was a kid who filled silence with exploring the world around me, and he never quite knew what to do with that.
But we found a rhythm. The last night I was here, he grilled burgers and asked if I’d had a good time.
I said yes. Then I asked if I could stay for a full year.
He didn’t answer, just gave me a look that felt almost sad that I didn't understand at the time. Later, when I told my mom I wanted to live with him, she cried. Told me she’d die without me. So, I stayed.
After high school, I tried to reconnect with him.
Drove all the way out here one afternoon.
We talked for an hour, maybe two, on the front porch.
I told him I was thinking about travelling, that I wasn't ready to go to college because I wasn't sure what I wanted to do yet.
I had looked into working at vineyards, orchards, and farms. Places where I could work outside and see what else was out there.
He got angry. Said I was just like her.
I told him no; I wasn’t chasing something I didn’t understand. I just wanted to figure out who I was. I wanted to make choices in my life based on experiences and love what I end up doing.
I asked if I could leave a few of my things at his place, if it could be my permanent address, a place to call home.
He said, “So you can break my heart like your mom did?”
That was the last thing he ever said to me.
I left.
I left without telling him I had just buried Mom, and I needed him. I left with my head held high and my heart bruised but still beating.
And I did travel to all of the places on my list. I worked until my hands blistered and my back ached, and I learned what real tired felt like.
I fell in love with the quiet. With dirt and animals and early mornings. It was honest work. It grounded me in a way people never did.
Because I had learned that people rarely took the time to figure out who they were or what they actually wanted.
Most chase something they don't understand.
People can be selfish in ways animals and nature aren't. Don't get me wrong, I love people.
I just have a low threshold for insincere ones.
I sought out therapy after my mom died, and it helped me understand myself and what I need from people in my life and what I don't.
Now I’m standing in front of the same house, a year into my veterinary technician program in Summit City, about forty-five minutes from here.
From this cluster of small towns in western Canada.
The place looks smaller than I remembered.
The roofline is sagging, and the wood exterior has seen better days.
There’s a single light over the porch that still works, flickering against the early dusk.
When Mr. Novak called, I almost didn’t answer.
He said he’d been my father’s lawyer and that he'd heard so much about me. After a moment of awkward silence, he broke the news. He told me my dad had passed away weeks before.
Weeks.
And that he’d left me everything.
I remember sitting in that café in the heart of Hawthorne Ridge, hands around a coffee I didn’t drink, while Mr. Novak slid a folder across the table.
He talked in that calm, deliberate tone lawyers use when they’re trying not to make anything worse.
He said my dad had wanted to call me, but it got too late, too fast. And he didn't want me to forgive him for his mistakes because he was dying. That he’d hoped this house would bring me back home someday.
That he hoped I would finally be happy here.
What he didn't know is that some of my happiest childhood memories were from here. That I would have been happy here had he let me call this house my home.
I had to look away from the man in front of me because I hadn't cried yet, but I felt it coming.
I blinked back the tears, and my eyes settled on a beautiful blonde woman behind the counter, and a little boy with a floppy mess of blonde waves refilling sugar jars together while he spoke animatedly, and she listened intently with a warm smile.
We finished our meeting with him handing me the house keys and another envelope with extra keys that he promised were labelled.
Now, I’ve been standing here for ten minutes with those folders in my car and the house keys in my hand. I should go inside. See what’s waiting for me.
But I can’t move.
The past feels thicker here, heavy, like the air just before a storm.
The crunch of tires on gravel pulls me out of it.
I turn as an old truck rolls up the drive, mud splattered across the side.
An older couple climbs out. The woman gets to me first; she's on the shorter side, with a mess of brown hair tied back in a low bun with silver streaks, smiling like she’s known me forever.
“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up,” she says, voice bright. “You’re absolutely beautiful, Tessa. You look just like your mama.”
I blink, unsure what to say. I don’t recognize her.
I watch as a man who, I assume, is her husband, catches up.
He looks like a farmer. His face is warm and kind, but you can tell he spends his days out in the elements, like he's worked hard most of his life, but loves it.
He wipes his hands on jeans that look lived in, and something about him helps me relax.
Looking at me quickly mouthing 'sorry', before turning to the woman beside him with a soft look so full of love, “Judy, she probably doesn’t remember us.”
He offers his hand, and I shake it. His palm is rough and warm. “I’m Dean Palmer, this is my wife, Judy. We used to be friends with your parents, before you and your mom left.”
Something flickers in my memory, a barn, a creek, kids laughing, a potluck maybe.
Dean’s eyes soften. “When your dad got sick, he told us he was leaving everything to you. Said he hoped it would bring you back to this community. Back home to family.”
I swallow hard. I don't know what to say to that. I don't have any family left. “He didn’t call. I didn't know.”
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.