**Part 1**
At nineteen, my father drove me eleven miles up a snow-covered mountain and told me the abandoned cabin at the end of the road was mine.
He said it without looking at me.
His hands were on the steering wheel of the Silverado. His eyes were on the windshield. On the snow. On the dark pine trees leaning over the narrow road like they were listening.
“It’s yours, Wren,” he said. “Your mother’s family’s place. Fresh start.”
In the passenger seat, my stepmother Sandra turned around and smiled at me.
“Isn’t that exciting?” she said.
I didn’t say anything.
I was sitting in the back seat with a duffel bag on my lap. Two pairs of jeans. Four T-shirts. A sweatshirt. Some underwear. A toothbrush.
That was what Sandra had told me to pack.
Just the essentials, honey. You can get the rest later.
The road ended at a gate. Rusted. Hanging open on one hinge.
Behind it, at the end of a long white clearing, sat a cabin.
Small. Dark logs. A steep roof heavy with snow. A stone chimney. A porch sagging in the middle. Two windows. No lights. No smoke.
It looked like something you’d find in an old photograph. The kind where everybody in it is dead.
My father parked.
He got out.
He walked around to the back and opened my door.
I got out. My sneakers sank into eight inches of snow.
It was three in the afternoon in January. Eighteen degrees. The sky was the color of dishwater.
He walked me to the porch.
Sandra stayed by the truck. Arms crossed. In her long down coat and her fur-lined boots.
My father pushed open the door.
The smell hit me first. Cold ash. Cedar. Dust. Something old and sweet underneath, like dried apples.
Inside, it was dark. One room. A wood stove in the corner. An iron bed frame against the wall with no mattress. A wooden table. Two chairs. A shelf with a few chipped plates and cups. A braided rug on the floor. Faded red and blue.
No electricity.
No phone.
“Wood’s in the shed out back,” my father said. “Plenty of it. There’s a pump in the kitchen. It works if you prime it.”
He didn’t look at me.
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
I followed him back out to the porch.
Sandra was standing at the bottom of the steps now. Holding out her hand.
“Phone, honey,” she said.
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Your phone,” Sandra said. “There’s no reception up here anyway. No point in you having it. I’ll keep it safe.”
“I need my phone.”
“For what?” Sandra said. “There’s nobody to call. And you’ll just drain the battery and get upset.”
She held out her hand.
I looked at my father.
He was looking at the trees.
I gave her my phone.
“And my money,” I said.
I’d been working at the Elk Ridge Diner in town for two years. Since I was seventeen. Double shifts on weekends. Every tip I made, I put in a coffee can under my bed. I’d been saving for community college. For a car. For anything that would get me out of that house.
Two thousand, three hundred and sixty dollars.
Sandra had taken the coffee can that morning. For safekeeping. While we packed.
“We’re holding it,” Sandra said. “Until you get yourself sorted out.”
“Sorted out from what?”
Sandra smiled at me.
“You know,” she said.
I didn’t know.
Then my father went back to the truck.
He opened the back door.
He reached in.
He came out holding a cardboard box.
A shoebox. Nike. Gray. Held together with packing tape at the corners. My mother’s handwriting on the lid in faded black marker.
WREN’S.
Inside it was everything I had left of my mother.
Eleven photographs. Her in a sundress at a lake. Her holding me as a baby. Her laughing in our old kitchen with flour on her nose.
Six cassette tapes. Mixtapes she made. Mom’s Road Songs. Wren’s Bedtime. Sunday Morning. In her handwriting. With little drawings on the labels.
A pair of her earrings. Silver hoops.
And a little glass bird.
Blue. The size of my thumb. With a chipped wing. It sat on our kitchen windowsill my whole childhood. She said it was a bluebird. She said bluebirds were good luck. She said every morning when the sun came through it, it threw a little blue light on the counter, and that meant the day would be good.
She died when I was nine.
I’d kept that box under my bed for ten years.
My father was carrying it to the trunk.
“Dad,” I said.
He didn’t stop.
“Dad. That’s mine. That’s Mom’s. That’s all I have of her.”
He opened the trunk.
He put the box inside.
Something inside me broke.
Not loudly. Quietly. Like ice cracking on a pond.
“Why?” I said.
My voice was barely a whisper.
My father closed the trunk.
He looked at Sandra.
Sandra looked at me.
“It’ll be safer with us, honey,” she said. “You don’t want it getting wet up here. Or burned. We’ll keep it until you come back down.”
“When?”
Sandra smiled.
“When you’re ready,” she said.
My father got in the truck.
He didn’t argue with her.
He never argued with Sandra.
He never had. Not once. In the eight years since he married her.
Sandra got in.
She rolled down her window.
“You’ll be fine, Wren,” she said. “It’s good for you. Learn some independence. You’re nineteen. Time to grow up.”
She rolled up the window.
The truck backed through the gate.
It turned around in the snow.
It went down the road.
I stood on the porch in my thin jacket.
A Target windbreaker. Gray. Not even lined.
I watched the taillights disappear into the trees.
My father never looked back.
I need to tell you about my father.
So you understand.
His name is Kenneth Maddox. He’s fifty-one. He sells insurance in Tamarack Falls, Colorado. A little mountain town of four thousand people at the bottom of the pass. He coached my Little League team when I was seven. He taught me to ride a bike in the church parking lot. He used to sing Jimmy Buffett songs in the car with the windows down.
When my mother was alive, he was a different man.
My mother’s name was Laurel. Laurel Ann Whitfield Maddox.
She was a fourth-grade teacher at Tamarack Falls Elementary. She grew up in town. Her family had been in those mountains since the 1890s. Miners. Then ranchers. Then teachers.
She was funny. She was loud. She danced in the kitchen while she cooked. She made mixtapes for everything. Road trips. Rainy days. Bad moods.
She got sick when I was seven.
Breast cancer.
She fought it for two years.
She died in March. When I was nine.
My father fell apart.
He stopped singing. He stopped coaching. He stopped coming to my school things. He sat in his recliner every night with a beer and the TV on and didn’t watch it.
Then he met Sandra.
At a real estate seminar in Denver. A year after Mom died.
She was a mortgage broker. Blonde. Organized. Sure of everything.
She married him eleven months later.
She moved into our house.
She painted over the kitchen. The yellow my mother picked became gray. Greige, Sandra called it. She took down my mother’s pictures. She said it was unhealthy for Ken to live in a shrine. She packed my mother’s clothes into garbage bags and donated them to the thrift store in Glenwood Springs. I found out when I saw a girl from my school wearing my mother’s purple sweater.
She moved me from my bedroom to the smaller one over the garage. So her son from her first marriage, Tyler, could have mine.
My father let her.
All of it.
He let her repaint. He let her take down the pictures. He let her give away the sweater. He let her move me.
He never once said no.
When I was twelve, I asked him why.
He was in the garage. Changing the oil in Sandra’s car.
“Dad,” I said. “Why do you let her do everything?”
He didn’t look up.
“Because I can’t do it alone, Wren,” he said. “I tried. After your mom. I couldn’t. Sandra keeps everything running.”
“But she’s mean to me.”
He stopped.
He looked at me. For a second.
Then he looked back at the oil filter.
“She’s not mean,” he said. “She’s just organized. Give her a chance.”
I gave her seven years of chances.
The night before the mountain, I came home from a double shift at the diner at eleven-thirty.
My father and Sandra were at the kitchen table. In the greige kitchen.
Sandra had a folder in front of her.
“Sit down, Wren,” she said.
I sat.
“We’ve been talking,” Sandra said. “Your father and I. You’re nineteen. You’ve been out of high school for a year. You’re working at a diner. You’re not going to college. You don’t contribute to this household.”
“I pay rent,” I said. “Two hundred a month. Since I was eighteen. You made me.”
“That doesn’t cover your share,” Sandra said.
“My share of what?”
Sandra ignored that.
“Tyler’s moving back home,” she said. “From Fort Collins. He needs the space. And honestly, honey, it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet.”
I looked at my father.
“Dad?”
He was looking at the table.
“Your mother’s family has a cabin,” he said. “Up on Whitfield Ridge. It’s been empty for years. Nobody’s using it. You can have it.”
“A cabin.”
“It’s a fresh start,” Sandra said. “You’ve always liked the mountains.”
“When?”
Sandra closed the folder.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
That first night, I survived on two granola bars.
They were in my jacket pocket. From the diner. Nature Valley. Oats and honey. I’d grabbed them on my break the day before and forgotten about them.
I ate one at five o’clock. When it got dark.
I saved the other one.
I figured out the stove.
There was a box of wooden matches on the shelf. Old. Some of them didn’t strike. I found newspaper in a pile by the door. Yellowed. From 2009. I crumpled it up. I found kindling in the shed. Split pine. Dry.
It took me nine matches.
On the tenth, the fire caught.
I sat in front of it on the braided rug.
In my jacket. With my knees pulled up. With the door of the stove open so I could see the flames.
I didn’t cry.
That surprised me.
I sat there and watched the fire and thought about my mother’s glass bird. In the trunk of my father’s truck. Driving away down the mountain.
I thought about the little blue light it made on the kitchen counter.
That means the day will be good.
I slept in my jacket beside the stove.
On the floor. On the rug.
I woke up every hour to put more wood in.
The next morning, I found Dutch.
I went out to the shed for more wood at seven. The sun was coming up over the ridge. Pink and gold on the snow.
I heard something.
A whimper. Behind the shed. Where the woodpile leaned against the wall.
I walked around.
A dog.
Lying in a hollow between two stacks of split logs. Curled up as small as he could get.
A German shepherd. Or mostly. Black and tan. Big. Or he would have been, once.
Now he was skin and bones.
His ribs showed through his coat like the rungs of a ladder. His fur was matted with ice. His right back leg was stiff, stretched out at an angle like it didn’t bend right.
He looked up at me.
Brown eyes. Tired. Old. Gray around the muzzle.
He didn’t growl.
He didn’t move.
He just looked at me.
Like I was the first thing he’d seen in a long time.
He looked as forgotten as I felt.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Hey, buddy.”
I knelt down in the snow.
He watched me.
I held out my hand. Slowly.
He sniffed it.
Then he put his head down on his paws and sighed. A long, shaky, exhausted sigh.
I took the last granola bar out of my pocket.
My last food.
I unwrapped it.
I broke it in half.
I held one half out to him.
He ate it in one bite.
Then he looked at me.
I gave him the other half.
He ate that too.
Then he got up.
Slowly. Painfully. Favoring the stiff leg. He limped out of the hollow between the woodpiles.
He walked over to me.
And he leaned his whole weight against my knee.
All of it. Every pound he had left. Against my leg. Like he’d decided I was the thing he was going to hold on to.
I put my arms around him.
He was so cold. So thin. I could feel his heart beating through his ribs.
He was wearing a collar.
Leather. Old. Cracked. Brown.
There was a tag on it. Brass. Worn almost smooth.
One word.
DUTCH.
“Dutch,” I said.
His ears went up.
“Is that your name? Dutch?”
He thumped his tail once in the snow.
I brought him inside.
He lay down in front of the stove. On the braided rug. Right where I’d slept.
He didn’t move for the rest of the day.
There was no food.
I’d checked every cupboard. Every shelf. Every drawer. A tin of baking soda. A jar of salt. A box of tea bags so old they’d turned to dust.
That was all.
I thought about walking down the mountain.
Eleven miles. In sneakers. In eight inches of snow. In a thin jacket. With a dog who couldn’t walk.
It would take all day. Maybe longer. If I got lost, if I fell, if it got dark—
I thought about Sandra in her fur-lined boots.
You’ll be fine, Wren.
I stayed.
I kept the fire going.
I drank water from the pump. It took twenty minutes of priming before it ran. Brown at first. Then clear. Ice cold. It hurt my teeth.
I gave Dutch water in a chipped bowl.
He drank all of it.
That night, I was lying on the rug next to Dutch.
My stomach was cramping. I hadn’t eaten since the granola bar that morning. Neither had he.
I was staring at the ceiling. At the dark rafters.
The fire was dying. I’d run low on kindling. I was saving the big logs for later. For two in the morning. When it would be coldest.
That’s when I noticed it.
Cold air.
Coming up through the floor.
Not around the windows. I’d stuffed newspaper in the gaps. Not under the door. I’d rolled up my sweatshirt and pushed it against the crack.
It was coming from directly under me.
Through the boards.
Under the rug.
I put my hand flat on the rug.
I could feel it. A thin, steady stream of cold air. Pushing up. Right through the weave.
Dutch lifted his head.
He stood up. Slowly. On his three good legs.
He turned around.
He put his nose down on the rug.
Right where my hand was.
He sniffed.
Then he started to whine.
Low. Urgent.
He pawed at the rug.
“What is it?” I said. “What’s down there?”
He pawed again.
He looked at me.
He whined.
I got up.
I grabbed the edge of the braided rug.
I pulled it aside.
Underneath were floorboards. Old. Gray. Covered in years of dirt and dust.
I almost didn’t see it.
But Dutch was standing on one particular spot. His nose pressed to the boards.
I knelt down.
I brushed away the dust with my hand.
There was a line.
Straight. Perfectly straight. Cut into the floorboards. Running across three of them.
Then another line. At a right angle.
Then another.
Then another.
A square.
Three feet by three feet.
Cut so perfectly into the floor it was almost invisible. The edges sanded flush. Hidden under years of dirt.
On one edge, set into a little notch in the wood, was a ring.
Iron. Black. The size of my palm.
My hands were shaking.
I hooked my fingers through the iron ring.
I pulled.
It didn’t move.
I pulled harder.
It creaked.
I braced my feet. I leaned back. I pulled with everything I had.
The square lifted.
A trapdoor. Heavy. Thick planks. Hinged on one side. It swung up and fell back against the floor with a bang that shook the cabin.
Cold air rushed up into my face.
And a smell.
Earth. Stone. Wax. Something sweet.
Below was darkness.
And a ladder.
I grabbed a burning stick from the stove.
I held it over the hole.
Stone.
Stone walls. A stone floor. Six feet down. A room. Maybe ten feet by ten feet.
The ladder went straight down.
And on the walls, shelves.
Wooden shelves. Floor to ceiling. Every wall.
Full.
I climbed down the ladder.
Slowly. Holding the burning stick. My heart pounding so hard I could hear it.
I reached the bottom.
I turned around.
Jars.
Hundreds of them.
Mason jars. Glass. With metal lids. Lined up in rows. Every shelf.
Green beans. Corn. Tomatoes. Peaches. Applesauce. Pickles. Beets.
Big bags of rice. Tied with twine. Sealed in plastic.
Cans of beans. Dozens of them.
Flour in a metal tin. Sugar in another. Oatmeal. Powdered milk. Salt. Coffee.
On another shelf, blankets. Wool. Folded. Stacked six high. Green and gray. Army surplus.
Candles. Long white ones. Two boxes.
Lamp oil. Four cans. And two kerosene lanterns.
Rope. A hatchet. A saw. A shovel.
A first-aid kit. Red. Big. The kind they have in schools.
A bag of dog food.
A bag of dog food.
Forty pounds. Purina. Unopened.
Someone had stocked enough supplies to survive an entire winter.
I stood in the middle of the stone room.
Holding a burning stick.
Shaking.
Then I saw it.
On the shelf at eye level. Right in front of me. Set apart from the others.
One jar.
Smaller than the rest. Dark purple. Almost black.
Jam.
There was a label on it.
A piece of masking tape. Handwritten. In blue ink. Faded.
PLUM.
And underneath, in smaller letters, a name.
Laurie Bird’s.
My hands started shaking so hard I almost dropped the burning stick.
Laurie Bird.
That was my mother’s childhood name.
Nobody called her that. Not my father. Not Sandra. Not her teacher friends.
Only her mother. My grandmother. Who died when I was four.
And my mother herself. In stories. When she tucked me in at night.
When I was a little girl, Grandma called me Laurie Bird. Because I never stopped singing. And because I always wanted to fly away.
I picked up the jar.
I held it.
The glass was cold.
I put it back.
Carefully. Exactly where it was.
At the far end of the stone room, against the back wall, there were three more things.
A metal box. Gray. The size of a shoebox. Like a tackle box. With a latch.
A strongbox. Iron. Heavy. Black. With a combination lock. Four numbers.
And a bundle of letters.
Envelopes. Old. Tied with twine.
I didn’t touch the strongbox.
I didn’t touch the letters.
I picked up the metal box.
I climbed back up the ladder.
Dutch was standing at the edge of the hole. Whining. Wagging his tail.
I put the metal box on the table.
I lit a candle from the cellar.
I opened the latch.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Folded in half.
On the outside, in blue ink, in handwriting I’d know anywhere:
For Wren.
My mother’s handwriting.
I unfolded it.
The first line made me read it twice.
If you’re reading this, then they finally brought you here.
I sat at the wooden table in the cabin on Whitfield Ridge.
With a candle.
With Dutch’s head on my knee.
And I read my dead mother’s letter.
Wren,
If you’re reading this, then they finally brought you here.
I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.
I prayed every night that it would never happen. That your father would wake up. That he’d be the man I married. That he’d never let anybody put you out in the cold.
But I’ve been sick for two years now. And I’ve watched him. And I know him.
He’s a good man, Wren. He is. But he’s not a strong one. When I’m gone, he’s going to fall apart. And somebody’s going to come along and pick up the pieces. And whoever it is, he’ll let them do whatever they want.
Because he won’t be able to do it alone.
I don’t know who she’ll be. I hope she’s kind. I hope she loves you.
But if she doesn’t. If someday she decides you’re in the way. If your father lets her drive you up this mountain and leave you here with nothing.
I want you to know I saw it coming.
And I got ready.
This cabin was my grandmother’s. Your great-grandmother. Hazel Whitfield. She built the root cellar with her own hands in 1946. After her husband died. With a pick and a shovel and stones she hauled from the creek. She said a woman alone on a mountain needs two things. A place to hide, and enough to eat.
I spent every summer up here when I was a girl. Grandma Hazel taught me to can tomatoes. To make plum jam. To split wood. To read the weather. To be alone and not be afraid.
She called me Laurie Bird.
I’m leaving the cabin to you. Not to your father. To you. The land too. All forty acres. The whole ridge. It’s in a trust. My lawyer has the papers. Her name is Margaret Fenn. She has an office on Main Street in Tamarack Falls, above the hardware store. She knows everything.
Your father doesn’t know about the trust. He thinks the cabin’s just an old shack that’s worth nothing. That’s what I told him. I wanted him to think that.
Because if he knew it was worth something, she’d want it.
There’s a man who lives three miles down the ridge. Harlan Pike. He was Grandma Hazel’s neighbor for forty years. He taught me to shoot a rifle when I was ten. He’s the closest thing to a grandfather I ever had.
I asked him to stock the cellar. Every fall. Every October. Fresh supplies. As long as he lives.
Just in case you ever need it.
He promised me.
He’s a man who keeps his promises.
The strongbox is yours. The combination is your birthday. Month and day. Four numbers.
The letters are yours too. There’s one for every birthday you’ll have without me. From ten to nineteen. I wrote them all this winter. While I still could.
Read them in order, baby. One at a time. Don’t rush.
And Wren.
I made plum jam the summer before I got sick. From Grandma Hazel’s tree. The one in front of the cabin. It’s still there. You’ll see it in the spring.
I saved one jar. For you.
It’s on the shelf. At eye level. Where you’ll see it first.
When you’re scared. When you’re cold. When you think nobody in the world remembers you exist.
Open it.
It tastes like summer. It tastes like being nine.
It tastes like me.
I love you more than all the stars over this ridge.
You are not forgotten.
You were never forgotten.
— Mom
(Laurie Bird)
I sat at the table for a long time.
The candle burned down.
I didn’t cry.
Then I did.
I cried for the first time since I was nine years old.
Since the morning of the funeral. When I stood in my mother’s yellow kitchen and watched the sun come through her little glass bird and throw a blue light on the counter.
And she wasn’t there to tell me it meant the day would be good.
I cried until Dutch got up and put his paws on my lap and licked my face.
Then I went back down into the cellar.
I knelt in front of the iron strongbox.
The combination lock. Four little wheels. Brass. Numbers zero through nine.
My birthday.
October seventeenth.
1-0-1-7.
I turned the wheels.
One.
Zero.
One.
Seven.
Click.
The lid came up.
Inside, on top, was a manila envelope.
Thick. Sealed. With a typed label.
WHITFIELD FAMILY TRUST — TRUST INSTRUMENT, DEED, AND BENEFICIARY DOCUMENTS — BENEFICIARY: WREN LAUREL MADDOX — DO NOT OPEN BEFORE BENEFICIARY’S 19TH BIRTHDAY.
My birthday was three months ago.
I’d turned nineteen in October.
Under the envelope was something else.
A Walkman.
A Sony Walkman. Yellow. The waterproof kind. Old. From the nineties.
With a pair of headphones. Foam earpieces. Orange.
And a pack of batteries. Double A. Still sealed.
And a cassette tape.
On the label, in my mother’s handwriting:
FOR WREN — WHEN YOU FIND THIS
My father had taken her tapes. Mom’s Road Songs. Wren’s Bedtime. Sunday Morning. In the shoebox. In the trunk.
He hadn’t known about this one.
I put the batteries in the Walkman.
My fingers were so cold I dropped two of them. They rolled across the stone floor. Dutch chased them.
I put the tape in.
I put on the headphones.
I pressed play.
Hiss.
Static.
Then a click.
Then breathing.
Then a voice.
“Hi, baby.”
I stopped breathing.
“It’s Mom. I’m in the cabin. Right now. Up on the ridge. Harlan drove me up. I made him. The doctor said I shouldn’t but I don’t care.”
A cough. Weak.
“It’s September. The aspens are turning. The whole ridge is gold. I wish you could see it. You’re at school right now. Third grade. Mrs. Lowry’s class. You’re probably learning long division and hating it.”
A laugh.
“I’m sitting on the porch. In Grandma Hazel’s rocking chair. There’s a plum tree right in front of me. It’s loaded. Purple. I’m going to make jam this afternoon. One more batch. One last time.”
A pause.
“I’m making you a jar, Wren.”
I was sitting on the cold stone floor of a root cellar with a forty-pound bag of dog food and a dog with a bad leg.
Listening to my dead mother’s voice.
Ten years old.
From September before she died.
“I don’t know when you’ll hear this,” she said. “Maybe never. I hope never. I hope your dad steps up. I hope you grow up in a warm house with people who love you and you never have to come up here.”
“But if you do,” she said. “If you’re up here alone. If you’re scared.”
Her voice got very soft.
“I want you to hear something.”
Then she started to sing.
Not well. She never sang well. Her voice was shaky from the chemo. She ran out of breath halfway through every line.
It was the song she sang me every night.
The one she made up when I was a baby.
“Little Wren, little Wren,
fly away and come back again,
when the snow is on the ridge,
I’ll be waiting by the bridge,
little Wren, little Wren,
fly away and come back again.”
She sang it three times.
Then she stopped.
“There’s a bridge,” she said. “Down by the creek. Behind the cabin. A little wooden one. Grandma Hazel built it. That’s the bridge in the song. I never told you that.”
A long breath.
“Go stand on it, baby. In the spring. When the snow melts. And sing it. Loud.”
Another cough. Worse.
“I’ll hear you.”
Click.
Hiss.
The tape ran out.
I sat on the floor of the root cellar for a long time.
With the headphones on.
Listening to the hiss.
I ate that night.
Green beans from a jar. Heated in a dented pot on the wood stove. Rice. Peaches. I ate them straight out of the jar with my fingers. The syrup ran down my chin.
I gave Dutch two cups of dog food in the chipped bowl.
He ate it so fast he choked.
Then he ate two more.
Then he lay down by the stove and fell asleep with his belly full. His stiff leg twitching as he dreamed.
I didn’t open the plum jam.
Not yet.
I wrapped myself in two wool army blankets from the cellar.
I lit a kerosene lantern.
I untied the twine on the bundle of letters.
There were ten envelopes.
Each one had a number on the front.
All the way to 19.
I opened 10.
Happy birthday, baby.
You’re ten. Double digits. I’m sorry I’m not there.
I bet you’re mad at me. For dying. That’s okay. Be mad. I’m mad too.
Here’s something nobody’s going to tell you this year, so I will: it’s okay to miss me so much it hurts. It’s okay to cry in the bathroom at school. It’s okay to sleep with my sweater.
And Wren—if someone tells you to stop being sad, that it’s been long enough, that you need to move on—you don’t have to listen to them.
You get to be sad as long as you need.
— Mom
I remembered.
I was ten. Sandra had been married to my father for two months. She found me sleeping with my mother’s purple sweater.
She took it.
She said, Honey, it’s been over a year. It’s time to move on.
She gave it to the thrift store.
I read 11.
Then 12.
I couldn’t stop.
12: I hope you have a friend. A real one. Just one is enough.
13: Thirteen is hard. Thirteen is the worst. Everybody’s mean at thirteen, including you. Forgive yourself.
14: If your dad hasn’t said he’s proud of you yet this year, I’m saying it for him. I’m so proud of you.
15: Learn to drive in the snow. Turn into the skid. Not away.
16: If anybody makes you feel small, remember Grandma Hazel. She hauled every stone in that cellar from the creek. Alone. At sixty-one.
I opened 17.
Wren.
By now, I bet you’ve figured out that I’m not just writing letters for your birthdays.
I’m writing them because I’m scared about what’s going to happen to you.
I’ve met women like the one your father’s going to marry. I don’t know her name yet. But I know her. I’ve had her in parent-teacher conferences. I’ve had her on the PTA. She’s organized. She’s sure. She’s the kind of woman who comes into a grieving house and says she’s going to fix it.
And she’s going to fix it by getting rid of everything that reminds him of me.
Including you.
I’m sorry, baby. You look just like me. Same chin. Same eyes. Same laugh.
Every time he looks at you, he’s going to see me. And she’s going to hate that.
I put the letter down.
I looked at the fire.
I thought about Sandra. Taking down the pictures. Painting over the yellow. Moving me over the garage.
It’s unhealthy for Ken to live in a shrine.
My mother knew.
Ten years ago. Before she ever met her.
She knew.
I opened 18.
You’re eighteen. You’re an adult.
Margaret Fenn is supposed to contact you this year. About the trust. She’ll send letters. To the house. On your birthday. And every month after.
If you never got them, Wren, it’s because somebody didn’t want you to.
I sat very still.
I never got any letters.
Not on my eighteenth birthday.
Not on my nineteenth.
Not once.
I opened 19.
The last one.
Wren.
You’re nineteen.
The trust is yours now. All of it. Margaret can’t hold it anymore. You don’t need your father’s permission. You don’t need anybody’s.
Here’s what’s in it.
The cabin. The forty acres. The whole ridge.
And my life insurance.
I took out a policy when I got sick. Before your father knew how bad it was. I paid the premiums myself. Out of my teacher’s salary. Thirty-one dollars a month. For eighteen months.
It’s three hundred thousand dollars.
Your father got some of it. Twelve hundred dollars a month. Until you turned eighteen. For your care. For your food and your clothes and your doctor’s appointments and school.
The rest is yours.
Margaret will tell you exactly how much. And she’ll tell you how the twelve hundred a month was spent.
I asked her to keep receipts.
Wren, here’s the last thing.
If they brought you up here, it’s because they think you have nothing. They think you’ll come crawling back down the mountain in a week. Cold and hungry and scared. Willing to do whatever they say.
You don’t have nothing.
You have this cabin. You have this land. You have a cellar full of food that a seventy-year-old man has been restocking every October for ten years because he loved your mother.
You have Grandma Hazel’s stones under your feet.
And you have me.
In every jar. In every letter. In every song.
So eat. Sleep. Stay warm. Wait out the storm.
And when you’re ready, walk down that mountain.
Not crawling.
Walking.
— Mom
P.S. Open the plum jam now, baby. You’ve earned it.
I opened the plum jam.
The lid stuck. Ten years. I had to bang it on the edge of the table. Dutch woke up and barked.
It popped.
The smell.
Sweet. Dark. Summer.
Like the porch of a cabin in September. Like aspens turning gold. Like a kitchen with yellow walls.
I didn’t have bread.
I ate it with a spoon.
Straight out of the jar.
It tasted like being nine.
It tasted like her.
