Page 2 of Cedarwood Cabin
I give him a reluctant smile, trying to ease any concerns he has.
“Just one step at a time,” he says softly, squeezing my hand.
We finish our breakfast in awkward silence. My father has always shown me support—I can never fault him for that.
I look at him as he eats his oatmeal. After losing my mother, you can tell the last four years have taken a toll on him. His dark brown hair and beard are now streaked with gray. Wrinkles bunch at the side of his eyes.
I have one of his eye coloring and one of my mother's. My blue eye is from him and the green eye is from her. People used to joke about how I stole one of their eyes. I used to see the comments as light-hearted, but now they feel like a reminder of how everything has changed.
As if reading my mind, he mumbles, “You look so much like her.”
I give him an awkward smile, not knowing how to respond.
Before standing up from the table, he pats my hand. “We’re in this together, remember?”
He starts clearing the table, picking up the bowls and cups.
“You got anything planned for today?” he queries.
My mind wanders to painting. “I’m just gonna do some painting, then I have my appointment later.”
My father nods. “Okay. Are you looking forward to our hike tomorrow?”
A smile spreads across my face. “Yeah, I am,” I say with more joy.
I love hiking; it is one of my favorite hobbies. We used to do it often with my mother, so my father and I have decided to carry on the tradition. I always seem to find peace whenever I hike in a forest, like all my miseries would just dissolve away. Actually, everything within the forest is a sanctuary—from the singing of the birds to the odor of the trees.
“I’m glad,” my father says, his eyes lighting up. “Fresh air will do you good.”
A figure in the kitchen window catches my eye, startling me slightly. My father looks up to see what caught my attention.
My father opens the back door and his work colleague, Marty, stands as he waves.
“Hey, Marty. What are you doing here?” my father asks.
“Can I get a lift to work? My car has decided to act up,” Marty replies as he steps into the house.
“Sure, I just need to get dressed. I’ll be five minutes,” my father says, rushing to his bedroom.
I take a moment and observe Marty as he leans against the kitchen counter, folding his arms. He is only a couple of years younger than my father. There is a rugged handsomeness about him that I can't put my finger on.
He catches me looking at him and smiles. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I reply. “Would you like a glass of water?”
Marty grins and mockingly repeats my British accent, “Water.” He chuckles. “Sorry, it’s the way you say water. It’s cute,” he says as he smirks. “But no, thank you.”
I chuckle under my breath and roll my eyes at his joke. “Well, I’ll never get used to how Americans say it.”
Marty shakes his head and laughs. “One of those things. How are you finding Washington?”
I feel a bit more at ease. “The forests are beautiful and the town is quiet. It’s different. I miss home sometimes, though.”
“Change is tough, but you’ll find your footing here. I bet you get told this all the time, but you look like the double of your mother.”
Since moving to Washington, I have heard that a lot from the locals. My mother was born here, but moved to England with her father when she was eighteen. She always wanted to move back.
I can tell Marty has a hint of nostalgia in his eyes as he smiles. “I’m not sure if your father told you, but I went to school with your mother. She was so sweet.”
