Chapter 10 - The First Spring
The snow on the roof of the Montana homestead had melted entirely by late April, replaced by the pale green shoots of spring grass pushing their way through the damp earth along the porch line.
The old orchard behind the house, which my mother’s geological surveys had marked for industrial destruction, was bursting into a riot of white and pink apple blossoms in the morning sun. The county zoning commission had formally dismissed the eminent domain utility corridor three weeks ago, restoring the valley’s historical land protections and securing our homestead for good.
Inside the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon toast filled the air.
I stood at the counter, adjusting the collar of my flannel shirt—no cufflinks, no silk ties, just the comfortable weight of everyday cotton—while listening to the sound of Leo’s backpack zipper zipping shut in the hallway.
“Did you pack your spelling workbook, buddy?” Lauren asked, walking into the kitchen with a stack of graded essays tucked under her arm. She wore a simple blue cardigan, her dark-blond hair catching the morning light as she set her papers down on the pine table.
“In my bag,” Leo announced proudly, running into the kitchen with his red sneakers half-unlaced. He stopped by my side, tugging on my sleeve. “Dad, are you driving me to school today or is Mom?”
“We both are,” I said, kneeling down to tie his laces with double knots just the way he liked them. “Since it’s your class field trip to the forestry center, your mother and I figured we’d chaperone.”
Leo grinned, his blue-gray eyes—complete with the jagged amber fleck in the left iris—lighting up with excitement. “Can we stop for pancakes after?”
“Only if you finish your breakfast,” Lauren laughed, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the top of his unruly dark curls before he bolted back toward the front door.
When Leo was out of earshot down the hall, Lauren turned back to me, leaning against the counter with a quiet, knowing smile playing across her lips.
“You know,” she said softly, “there’s a letter sitting on the front porch table that arrived in the mail this morning.”
I paused, looking up from the floor. “From Chicago?”
“No,” she said, her expression softening into something gentle and contemplative. “From Zurich. Just a small, heavy envelope with no return address.”
I walked over to the front entryway, picked up the thick, cream-colored envelope resting on the wooden console table, and turned it over in my hands. The handwriting on the front was unmistakable—steady, precise, and written with an old-fashioned fountain pen.
I didn't open it right away. I held it for a moment, listening to Leo’s boots stomping impatiently on the front porch as he waited for us to open the door.
“Are you going to read it?” Lauren asked, coming up beside me and resting her hand lightly against my arm.
May you like
I looked down at the envelope, then over at my son waiting in the spring sunlight, before laying the unopened letter back down on the table alongside our car keys.
“Not today,” I said, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her close as we walked out the door to meet our son. “Let it wait until winter.”
