Chapter 7: Vermont
The drive to Vermont took three hours.
Sarah sat in the passenger seat.
We hadn't spoken much since the night before — not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much, and neither of us had found the right place to start.
Lily was at a neighbor's house.
A friend from preschool whose mother had said yes without asking questions, the way good people do.
An hour into the drive, Sarah said, "I should have called you the night I found out."
"Yes."
"I told myself I was protecting the situation.
Keeping it from escalating." She looked out the window.
"But I think I was protecting myself from having to watch you be in pain."
I didn't say anything.
"That's not a good enough reason," she said.
"No," I agreed.
"It's not."
She turned to look at me.
"Are we okay?"
I thought about it honestly.
"I don't know yet.
Ask me after Saturday."
She nodded and turned back to the window.
The Vermont farmhouse sat at the end of a long gravel road, surrounded by bare November trees.
It was older than I remembered.
The porch railing had been repaired recently — new wood, still pale against the weathered gray of the original boards.
Carol was waiting on the porch steps.
She was in her late sixties.
Thinner than the last time I'd seen her, which had been at my father's funeral.
She had his same eyes — our family's eyes — and she held herself carefully, the way people do when they're not sure of their welcome.
I got out of the car.
She stood up.
"Ryan."
"Carol."
We looked at each other for a moment.
"Come inside," she said.
"I made coffee."
The house was clean and lived-in and full of small signs of a life carefully maintained.
Plants on the windowsill.
Books stacked on the side table.
A quilt folded over the arm of the sofa that I recognized from my grandmother's house.
We sat at the kitchen table.
Sarah took her coffee and excused herself quietly to look around, giving us the room.
"Tell me about the arrangement," I said.
Carol wrapped her hands around her mug.
"After my divorce, I had nothing.
Your father knew.
He called me and said I could stay here as long as I needed.
He said it was family property and family should use it." She paused.
"He never charged me rent.
I've kept the place up myself.
Repairs, utilities, the garden.
I've tried to take care of it."
"Why didn't he tell me?"
"He said you had enough to carry.
You were building your career.
You had just gotten married." She looked at the table.
"He didn't want you to feel responsible for me."
"I would have wanted to know."
"I know that now." She met my eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ryan.
I should have reached out to you directly after he passed.
I kept waiting for Diane to tell you, and when she didn't—" She shook her head.
"I let it go on too long."
"How long can you stay here?" I asked.
"Realistically.
If I sold."
"I have a small pension.
Not enough for rent in most places." She said it without self-pity.
Just fact.
"I'd find something.
I've managed before."
Sarah appeared in the doorway.
She was holding something.
A photograph.
Old, slightly faded, in a simple frame.
"I found this in the hallway," she said.
She set it on the table.
It was my father.
Young — maybe thirty.
Standing in front of this house with his arm around a woman I almost didn't recognize.
My mother.
Diane.
Before everything.
They were both laughing.
I stared at it for a long time.
"He loved this house," Carol said quietly.
"He used to say it was the only place where everyone was equal.
Didn't matter what you had or didn't have.
You came here and you were just family."
I picked up the photograph.
My father's face looked back at me.
Open.
Unguarded.
Happy.
I set it down.
"I'm not selling," I said.
Carol went still.
"I'm not selling the house," I said again.
"But I need to make a formal arrangement.
Something legal.
So that everyone knows where they stand and there are no more secrets."
Carol's eyes filled.
She pressed her lips together hard.
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." I looked at her.
"Dad wanted me to make my own decision.
This is it."
She nodded.
Couldn't speak.
Sarah sat back down next to me.
Under the table, she found my hand.
I let her hold it.
But there was still one conversation left.
The one I'd been driving toward since Wednesday morning.
And it wasn't with Carol.
My phone lit up on the table.
Diane.
I looked at it.
Let it ring.
May you like
Watched it go to voicemail.
Then it rang again.
