Page 4 of The Darkest Parts of Me

We come to Solitude Ridge every chance we can.

Or at least we used to.

As the light turns, I urge my car forward, praising my luck that despite the curves and slopes of the mountain roads, the small trailer is still attached to my car. I look to my left and notice that the bike shop has been replaced by what appears to be a coffee shop—which I’m definitely not complaining about. The road from here is a series of twists and turns, but I know this road well, having traveled it countless times over the years.

In a way, it feels like only yesterday that I was last here, but in another, it feels as though I haven’t ever been here.

Five years.

I can’t believe it’s been five years.

I shake my head, trying to remove the thought.

Keep it together, Maven.

I repeat the mantra over and over, refusing to fall apart, especially while driving. What good would that do? We’ve only been here a couple of minutes, and if I break down now, living here won’t be plausible.

I check my rearview mirror, making sure no boxes have fallen out of the flatbed trailer my car is pulling, and to be sure Mom is still following me. She smiles warmly, peering through her windshield. I’m sure she’s having the same mix of emotions and thoughts I am—returning to a place we love, excitement about seeing our friends again, but also, the bittersweet memories that remind us of a time when things were different.

Memories that are remnants of a full, but past, life.

So many places in this town hold so many minor, insignificant moments with my dad, but now that he’s no longer here, they are possibly the most valuable things I have left of him.

We drive through the outskirts of town, passing neighborhoods and resorts until we start to encounter miles upon miles of private land. The trees are taller and closer together, and the more distance we travel makes it feel as though we’ve stepped into another world.

I always loved this feeling—the sensation of escaping and entering a world made just for us.

No matter the phase of life I was in, Solitude Ridge was always exactly what I needed it to be. Sometimes, the woods were a place of adventure, and other times, a sanctuary. It was our family’s oasis—a place far from the hustle and bustle of life.

After ten miles of nothing but trees and brush, the familiar street sign comes into view: Spruce Road.

I’ve driven down this dirt road numerous times, but after the last few years, seeing it only in my dreams and memories, the real-life beauty is overwhelming. Large branches hang over the narrow lane like a canopy, almost completely blocking out the sunlight all the way down the long stretch of road.

And then I see it, the gravel stone driveway.

I pull up the drive, my tires crunching against the small rocks, before a break in the thick, evergreen foliage reveals a cabin. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, fast and powerful, and I feel a combination of relief and heartache as I take in the cabin for the first time in years—for the first time since my dad was still alive.

My mom pulls up next to me in the driveway, and I step out of my car gingerly, my legs stiff from the long drive. She exits her car, and without taking our eyes off the cabin, we walk until we both face the front of it, standing side by side. She grabs my hand and squeezes it, but we remain silent for a few minutes, absorbing it all.

The dark blue siding fits the ambiance well, and the immense windows on the front of the A-frame structure seem to be in great shape, while the bright, sunshine-yellow front door is as welcoming as I remembered. The massive spruce trees surround the cabin as if creating a cocoon, providing shelter from the unforgiving sun. Sitting on the expansive front deck are the same whitewashed rocking chairs—as if they’ve been waiting for us to return.

“Well, here we are,” my mom says with a sigh, breaking the silence.

“Here we are,” I reply, still observing the cabin that has frequented my dreams.

She tilts her head to me. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

I honestly don’t know, but standing in this spot, looking at years of history, makes me feel like I’m honoring my father in a way.

The cabin itself is an homage to my dad’s work as an architect—he designed and built this place himself.

His hands touched every slab of wood.

He hammered every nail.

He designed a place for his family to create happy memories together.

I doubt he ever thought of the grief it would cause his wife and daughter someday.

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