The next morning, my mother came to my hotel with coffee. She looked at me with that practical expression she always used to hide her feelings. “Megan didn’t mean anything by those comments,” she said.
“She meant every word,” I replied.
My mother sighed. “Megan just understands business and property. You’ve always lived a different kind of life.” There it was—a soft, polite way of telling me I didn’t matter as much.
By noon, I was driving north in a rental car. As the big highways turned into small backroads and deep forests, everything got quieter. By the time I reached the mountains, my anger had turned into curiosity.
The cabin sat at the end of a gravel driveway. It looked old, but not ignored. I turned off the engine and listened to the wind in the trees. I expected the house to be dusty and cold, but when I unlocked the door, a soft, warm glow met me.
