Page 11 of Bears Not Included

“I love you, Mom.”

I take out my phone and immediately see an angry text message from my father. He wants me home immediately. I’m supposed to meet my—

I stop reading and discard it from my mind. I’ll deal with that later.

I just need one photo for proof, but at that moment, a robe of heartsickness drapes over my soul and replaces my peace. My father is never going to change his mind about my mom, no matter what proof to the contrary I show him.

Whatever went wrong with them is not something I can fix. With that comes the truth that my mom’s illness ran deeper than her trying to make my father believe that fairytales exist.

This is truly between my mom and me, just like it’s always been. I don’t need to capture this memory. It will stay with me forever.

I text my friends at FFF instead, and a string of celebratory emojis blows up on my screen.

I tell Faith I found the cottage as well.

I did it.

But the loneliness that engulfs me now is mammoth.

I take a deep breath and will myself to turn around and leave. No more fairytale hunting for me. I have terrifying responsibilities back home, and I can no longer hide from them.

And yet, I can’t let go. I can’t stop the fresh dose of curiosity from soaring inside me and twirling around my head, yet I know I must turn around and leave.

But I’m rooted to the soft earth beneath my sneakers, my gaze not once wavering off the cottage before me. I’m unable to quell the compulsion in me to move forward.

My limbs quiver with every step I take. My heart rattles almost painfully inside my chest. My curiosity is a beast that won’t let go of me.

I’m struggling to leave, to say goodbye, because of what my future holds, which explains the wide spectrum of emotions that spill from my pores. Excitement to peace, to heartsickness, to sadness, and now curiosity. I can’t turn around and leave.

Within moments, I find myself with my trembling hand on the doorknob that looks amazingly like a honey pot. My fingers tighten and twist against the brass knob, and suddenly the door opens for me.

My innocent curiosity turns instantly into insurmountable trepidation the moment I let go of the doorknob and step over the threshold into the cottage-style house.

The door slowly swings shut behind me. In the back of my mind, I hear the lock click in place, but all my attention remains fixed on what I see in front of me.

As if the sun has slipped in behind a cloud, gloom peaks in through the lace curtains on the windows and casts gray shadows all around me.

But my eyes must be deceiving me. I turn to the right and find a light switch. The modern embellishment surprises me, but the instant I flick it, light swathes my view.

At once enthralled and confused, I’m convinced I’m looking at a 3D image because it cannot be real. Almost stumbling forward, I touch a chair and snatch my hand away when it feels too real. The sight before me could easily be a replica of the illustrations my mom drew when she told me her version of the Three Bears’ home.

I must be dreaming. Or falling apart. Is this the result of keeping my tears and grief at bay for too many years, and it’s now manifesting as... madness? Am I seriously hallucinating?

I stand still, then whirl around. A heavy gasp escapes my lips, and I feel the sound echoing off the walls adorned with a kaleidoscope of tapestries depicting the changing seasons of a whimsical forest. Something else my mom had sketched.

My gaze filters over a huge fireplace embedded into one side of a river-stone embossed wall. On its mantlepiece is an impressive collection of porcelain and wooden ornaments depicting forests and mystical creatures.

The furniture is carved from dark, heavy wood and varnished to a soft gleam. Big, oversized chairs and sofas with plush cushioning in soft, thick velvet surround a huge, engraved coffee table littered with age-worn books, lanterns and candles, board games, and an array of trinkets, mostly eclectic in style. There’s also a ceramic pot of honey among the baubles.

I’m definitely dreaming, yet I’m in no hurry to wake myself just yet. I allow my gaze to travel over the living room again. From the thick, fur-like carpet beneath my feet to the bookcase that tries to lure me with the treasures to be found between its pages, I force myself to stay where I am.

I tilt my head to the side and discover the titles of universally loved classic literature, nature guides, and memoirs of people I’ve never heard of, interspersed with other books I’m unfamiliar with as well.

A desk of ornate craftsmanship sits before a bay window overlooking the meadow on the gray horizon. From the outside, the window looks grimy with dirt, but from the inside, it’s nothing like that.

The walnut wood of the desk, so lovingly nurtured into shape, is only complimented by the cherished use of it by its owner. Bottles of ink and varying stacks of parchment paper grace the surfaces of the desk. A pair of spectacles lay between the pages of an open book, and a teacup and saucer rest beside it.

I turn my head and take in the kitchen area. It’s as cozy and homely as the living room. The rusticness of it all calls to me—the iron hearth, accentuated by the copper pots hanging from the ceiling, their bottoms blackened—but it also means they’ve been happily cooked in.

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