Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Maxinne
The road narrows the farther I drive, as if it’s being swallowed up by the overgrown woods.
Sunlight filters in patches through the trees, casting shifting shadows across my car’s windshield.
I roll the window down, welcoming the warm air and inhale the scent of damp earth, but it does nothing to calm the nerves knotting in my chest.
Earlier this morning, I had a weak moment and called Derek.
He didn’t answer—of course. The worst part isn’t that he ignored the call but that I made it in the first place.
I’m upset with myself that, even after everything, I can’t seem to break the habit of reaching for him when I’m hurting.
I forgot for a moment that he’s the reason why I’m aching in the first place.
The realization hurts every single time it hits me. I know ending things was the right choice. We were both unhappy, and if I’m being honest with myself, we’d been that way for a long time. But knowing it was right doesn’t make it any easier.
I became so used to making every decision in my life to include Derek that somewhere along the way, my world became tangled with his. Now I’m trying to figure out who I am without him in my life, and it’s been a lot harder than I expected.
I think about all the times Derek brought me coffee at work.
Three years together, and he’d still hand me drinks loaded with syrups I didn’t like all because he couldn’t remember my order.
But I never forgot his: caramel macchiato with oat milk and sometimes an extra caramel drizzle if he’d had a rough week.
I’d smile, take the cup, and convince myself it was the thought that counts. Now, looking back, I’m not sure there was much thought at all. The memory leaves a bitter taste on my tongue, which is probably why my thoughts drift to this morning.
Zane, leaning against his counter, casually pouring a cup of coffee that brought me the comfort I desperately needed.
He hadn’t peppered me with questions or offered solutions I wasn’t ready to hear.
He’d simply handed me the mug and given me space to breathe, and for one moment, I felt like me again.
Before I can examine it too closely, the road curves ahead, and suddenly the thick wall of trees breaks apart.
It’s as if I’ve stumbled into a hidden oasis carved right out of the wilderness.
The trees fall away into acres of open land that stretch out on either side of me.
At its heart sits a cabin that I assume belongs to my dad—if I’m at the right place, that is.
A wide porch wraps around the cabin, lined with clay pots spilling over with herbs and flowers.
A weathered swing waves softly in the breeze, and big paned windows catch the afternoon light, reflecting flashes of green from the surrounding forest. Beyond the cabin sits a garden in neat rows, tender shoots pushing up through the soil.
Two cows are grazing in the pasture, their tails swishing lazily, while a small herd of goats bleat from their pen woven into the edge of the trees. Chickens scratch at the lawn, and in the distance, a handful of ducks ripple the surface of a small glinting pond.
I had braced myself for something different because I expected his home to be old and weathered. But this place is beautiful in a way that unsettles me, because it feels less like a stranger’s cabin and more like…home. I don’t know how else to describe it.
I take a deep breath as I put my car into park and spot a shadow moving behind the windows.
My throat tightens, a reminder that I’m not mentally prepared to see my dad.
The last time I saw him in person was three years ago, and even then, we circled each other like strangers.
I worry that he’ll still feel that way to me.
I grab the folder Ashton gave me this morning. Inside are the instructions for everything that Dad will need help with around the homestead today.
“Let’s do this,” I mumble to myself before stepping out of my car.
Gravel crunches beneath my sandals, each step carrying me closer toward the porch, to the man I once thought hung the moon.
The wooden boards groan under my weight as I climb the steps.
My chest constricts with the reminder that I haven’t seen him since the stroke, and Ashton’s careful descriptions of what to expect seem flimsy now.
Something tells me I’m unprepared for what awaits on the other side of this door. My hands shake as I rap my knuckles against the wood. There’s a shuffling sound followed by a pause before a latch clicks and the door swings open.
The man I see before me still looks like my dad—his eyes, his frame, the weight of him standing there in the doorway—but he’s also changed.
He’s thinner, as though the stroke carved away pieces of him, but somehow, his broad shoulders still fill the space the same as I remember.
His once neat beard has grown wild, streaked through with silver, softening the sharpness of his jaw that now appears too hollow.
His curls are pulled back into a low ponytail, exposing more scalp than I remember him having, his hairline retreating like time itself has been tugging it away. His skin is pale against the dark color of his beard, making him appear disturbingly fragile.
And yet, behind it all, his steady eyes meet mine, so achingly familiar that I almost forget to breathe.
“Hi, Dad.” The words scrape out of me in a whisper, scared that anything louder might shatter this moment.
A sharp sob rattles out of my dad, his shoulders shaking as a dam of tears gives way. The moment shatters anyway, as I watch him crumble, and my heart quietly breaks.
Ashton warned me of Dad’s diagnosis of expressive aphasia and how his emotions were uncontrollable since the stroke, but nothing could have prepared me for watching this once sturdy and strong man completely fall apart.
I’m frozen on the porch because I don’t know this version of my dad or how to handle the situation.
My hand twitches at my side, and my other clenches onto the folder I’m holding, yearning to reach for him but not sure if that’s what he needs or wants.
What should I do?
Finally, I take a step forward and awkwardly wrap my arms around him. He feels smaller than I remember, his frame both recognizable and fragile under my touch.
His voice is halting as he speaks. “Don’t deserve—” He pauses, groaning as he struggles to find the words. “Your help.”
He speaks one word at a time, pausing after each one, as if he’s fighting through a fog just to speak to me. I pull back enough to see his face, streaked with tears, his jaw trembling.
“Well, I’m here anyway,” I reply.
He gives me a nod before backing away and stepping aside to let me in first.
“Can you show me around?” I ask, hesitating for a moment, until he gives a second nod.
As I step inside, sunlight is pouring through the wide windows, painting the scuffed floorboards in shades of gold.
A sagging plaid couch slouches opposite of a boxy television that looks to be from the nineties.
Beside it, VHS tapes lean together in crooked stacks—cowboy flicks, thrillers, even a cracked Lion King case.
My stomach tightens at the memory of him sitting through that one with me more times than I could count.
“Excuse mess,” Dad mutters, though it’s not messy to me, only lived in.
The kitchen to the left is cramped, its laminate counters scarred from years of use.
We move down the narrow hall, past the bedrooms with their matching chipped wooden doors, when something makes me pause.
A shelf runs along the wall, crowded with wooden whittlings of tiny animals, birds mid-flight, faces smoothed into the wood by a knife.
They stand in careful rows, some polished, others half-finished.
“You still make these?” I ask softly.
Dad nods once, his lips pressed in a straight line.
My gaze lingers on a little fox perched near the end of the shelf, and suddenly, I’m six years old again, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor while Dad shaves curls of cedar into his lap.
He carved me a small owl that afternoon, insisting its crooked wings gave it ’character. ’
The owl is sitting on my nightstand back at Ashton’s cabin.
I packed it without really thinking about it.
Somehow, through every move I’ve had, that little owl has always found its place beside my bed.
The thought squeezes my heart, a reminder that he’d left us—left me—for this life.
I want to ask him why, to try to understand, but I decide to not press him today.
Instead, I clear my throat and allow my eyes to skim the cluttered counters, the faded rug, and the layer of dust in the corners.
There’s a weight here, not just between me and him, but in the workload needed to take care of this place.
There’s too much for one man to manage, let alone a man still learning how to use his hands and voice again.
“I’m here to help,” I announce, squaring my shoulders in determination. “With the chores. With anything needed. Ashton gave me a list, so I guess I’ll start with that.”
Dad’s mouth pulls tight. I know he must hate having this weakness brought upon him, but he needs some help, and that’s what I’m here to do. For Ashton, and for him too. His eyes shift, a mix of relief and shame within them, before he looks away.
“Why don’t you take care of the things you can,” I offer, forcing a small smile, “and I’ll handle what needs done outside. If I run into trouble, I’ll…figure it out.” The words wobble as I catch myself before saying ask you.
He gives the smallest nod, his jaw working, but says nothing more. I hesitate, wanting to bridge the gap, then settle for a nod of my own. Before I lose my nerve, I push out the door and into the weight of everything waiting for me.
“You have got to be kidding me!” My shout startles the cows in the field next to me, who all blink at me as if I’ve offended them.