Page 66 of Worship Him

When I pull into the driveway, I allow myself a small smile. We made it.

I pull up to the cottage, the gravel crunching under the tires. The familiar sight of the rustic wooden structure brings a wave of emotions crashing over me. Memories flood back, unbidden and unwelcome.

I’m reminded of a time when Adam looked at me like I was his world, when the world was colorful through my rose-tinted glasses.

That world seems galaxies away now.

"We're here, baby girl," I whisper to Avery as I turn off the engine.

The silence that follows is deafening. No city noise, no paparazzi, just... peace. Just as I wanted. And yet, it's anything but peaceful in my mind.

I step out of the car, my legs wobbling slightly. The stress of the day catches up with me as I breathe in the crisp mountain air. It smells like pine and possibilities—just like it did when Adam and I first discovered this place.

"God, what happened to us?" I mutter, once shaking my head as I move to get Avery from her car seat.

I carry her towards the front door and my eyes catch on the porch swing. Adam and I spent countless evenings there, planning our future, dreaming big dreams. Now look at us.

Inside, everything is exactly as we left it. A thin layer of dust covers the furniture, but otherwise, it's like stepping back in time. I half expect to see Adam lounging on the couch, tablet in hand, working on his latest project.

"This used to be our escape," I tell Avery, who's looking around with wide, curious eyes. "Mommy and Daddy would come here when the world got too loud."

I settle her in her portable crib and sink onto the couch, my body finally giving in to exhaustion. Disappointed, I sigh. The quiet I so desperately craved now feels oppressive. It's too easy to hear my own thoughts, too easy to remember.

"Why did we stop coming here?" I ask the empty room. "When did we let the noise win?"

Avery’s noises from her crib pull me back to reality. I force myself up, muscles protesting, and make my way to her.

"Hey there, little one," I coo, scooping her up. "Ready for a tour of our temporary home?"

I wander through the cottage, narrating to Avery as we go. "This is where Mommy and Daddy learned to make chocolatechip cookies. It didn’t turn out very well and we had to throw them away." I chuckle at the memory.

Once I’ve shown her everything of interest, I give Avery her bottle and it doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep.

Counting my blessings to have such a sweet and peaceful child, I lay her down in her crib for her nap.

Time to focus on the task at hand—making sure the cottage is actually a liveable space.

On closer inspection, the place is super dusty, a testament to how long it's been since our last visit. I grab a rag from under the sink and start wiping down surfaces.

I’ve just finished dusting almost everything off when Avery’s noises grab my attention. I glance at my phone, it’s been an hour since I put her down.

"All done napping?" I ask her, hugging her close. She doesn’t seem hungry so shift her to my hip and use one hand to continue my cleaning.

"We've got some work to do, don't we?" I tell her, sneezing as dust motes dance in the air. "But we'll make it cozy."

Hours pass as I clean—it takes longer than expected given that I can only use one hand—my mind wandering to happier times.

By the time I finish, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the floor.

"How about a fire, Avery?" I ask, setting her down in her stroller. "It's not cold, but it'll be nice and warm."

I stack logs in the fireplace, memories of Adam teaching me how to build the perfect fire flooding back. The match catches, flames licking at the kindling. Still got it.

"There," I say, satisfied. "That's better."

As night falls, I realize how unprepared we are. "We need to go shopping tomorrow, cupcake," I tell Avery, jotting down a list."There's a little store down at the garage. We'll stock up in the morning."

I curl up on the couch, Avery in my arms, watching the fire flicker. For now, in this moment, we're safe. We're okay. And that's enough.

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