Page 1 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

CHAPTER 1

Hailey

The suburban cottage at the end of the cul-de-sac looks as pristine as ever, even though it's been empty for multiple weeks. A fresh coat of paint brings life to the gray walls. The empty plant pots remain perfectly lined up by the front door like soldiers on an inspection parade, while the grass is still mowed to a perfect height. Someone is still looking after the place. I can guess who.

I recall my uncle trimming the grass with meticulous care, his face determined, every blade cut to the same, uniform height. His lawn had been his pride and joy, winning the HOA's Lawn of the Year award seven times in the last ten years—an accomplishment he was immensely proud of.

I had secretly always joked that Aunt May only loved him for his dedication to the garden, just as she spent all her time keeping the house neat and organized. She hated untidiness more than anything. The dust that has accumulated on their mailbox would have driven her crazy if she were still around.

Mixed emotions wash over me as I walk up the stone path, each step echoing through the stillness. After four and a half years of traveling the world, returning home feels bittersweet. On the one hand, it's comforting to be back in a place thathad once been my whole world. I'd grown up here from the age of four, and while Aunt May and Uncle Roger and I had been very different, they had shown me nothing but love and care. They'd treated me as their own daughter, providing for me without hesitation—food, clothing, birthday presents, a new bicycle when I was ten. They had even given me my first car: a 2012 Honda Civic with under 50,000 miles on the clock. I'd been overjoyed by the extra freedom it had brought me, though in the end it had still not been enough.

On the other hand, the weight of my childhood—the dull routine and the quiet yearning for something more—presses down on me like a heavy blanket, as I walk through the neat, orderly garden toward the front door.

I miss them, I truly do, and I owe them so much. But I had never fully felt at home with them, and now, standing here, I feel conflicted. Part of me mourns their passing deeply, another part of me wrestles with feelings of guilt. Despite everything they'd done for me, I hadn't always appreciated it the way I should have. I hadn't loved them as much as they had deserved. And I hadn't been there at the end, when they needed me.

I climb the polished granite steps to the porch, and my eyes fall on the weeds mixed in with the hydrangeas, the spider web in one corner.

It doesn't matter. Uncle Roger and Aunt May aren't here to see it.

They'll never be here again.

Tears well in my eyes, but I force them back. I'm too exhausted for another cryfest. Feels like I've done nothing but cry since I heard the news.

They died within weeks of each other. Uncle Roger first, succumbing to a fast-moving cancer we hadn't known about. Aunt May followed soon after. Officially, it was a stroke, though I think she died as much from a broken heart as anything else.In the end, the strain of caring for him in his last days had been what had probably pushed her over the edge.

The authorities had tried to contact me, of course, but I was volunteering as a teacher in a small village in Sudan, without access to the internet and relying on a cell phone service that was intermittent at best. It took ages for them to track me down. I received the letter a few days ago and I'd flown back as soon as they could arrange a replacement for me.

I turn my key in the lock and push the door open, stepping into the silence of my childhood home. The forgotten yet oh-so-familiar smell of wood polish mingled with potpourri hits me like a punch to the stomach. It's as if I've never left—and yet, everything feels so foreign now.

How did I go from longing for freedom to being here again, bound by memories that refuse to let me go?

I stand still for a moment, letting the memories flood me—the sound of Aunt May's good-humored laughter, the way Uncle Roger would hum as he trimmed the grass, the smell of his cigars in the evenings after dinner. But all that's left now is emptiness. They're gone, and after all the years they’d devoted to caring for me as I had grown up, in the end, I hadn't been there for them when they needed me the most.

Guilt tightens my chest once again. The wallpaper, the furniture, the pictures on the wall—even the grandmother clock ticking in the entrance hall, as it always had done. It's as if I never left. I half-expect to see them any moment—Uncle Roger on the couch watchingThe Price is Right, Aunt May in the kitchen making flapjacks. All the little things about that I had always taken for granted. Gone forever now.

I'm surprised how much I miss them. When my parents had died, they had taken me in without a second thought. They had shown me nothing but love and consideration, and they had dedicated themselves to raising me as if I were their own daughter. I owe them so much.

The orderly regimen I experienced when I went to live with my aunt and uncle in Aurora was a huge contrast to my previous life with Mom and Dad. With them, every day had been an adventure. There was no schedule, no predictability. My parents were nature lovers, and we spent hours hiking in the Colorado countryside in the summer, skiing in the winter. They had a particular passion for the Native American tribes who'd lived in this part of the world long before any settlers arrived. I spent many happy weekends and vacations with them, whisked away on lengthy car journeys throughout the state, visiting lakes, hiking and skiing in the mountains, exploring prehistoric cliff dwellings, and admiring newly discovered ancient cave art.

Aunt May and Uncle Roger were very different to Mom and Dad. They didn't get excited about watching black bears fishing in the river and weren’t fascinated by the discovery of an ancient clay figurine at an archaeological dig. They didn't love adventures. They thrived on routine, finding comfort in a clean home and a tidy garden. They were very much city people, and they adored Aurora. The uniform grid of its streets, the endless chain restaurants, the multiplex cinemas and bowling alleys, the shopping malls that sprawled across the town—they loved it all. To me, Aurora felt like a dull, colorless blur. The air always carried a faint scent of engine fumes and fast food, and the incessant high-pitched hum of fluorescent lights along every street made everything feel sterile. The streets stretched endlessly, lined with generic stores, endless strip malls, and characterless residential estates. It had no soul, no adventure.

I wanted very much to belong, to please my generous benefactors, as I realized they were, even at that young age. But the more I tried, the more stifling it became. The routine—the unyielding sameness of each day—began to suffocate me, and the thought of living this way forever terrified me.

Even after college, when I'd taken my first job as a junior accountant, I stayed on instead of moving out and getting my own place or sharing an apartment with someone. Looking back, I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was because it was what they expected of me. Maybe it was easier to stay in the comfort and familiarity of the home I'd grown up in, than to think about moving out. But each day still felt like a slow death, robbing me of the chance to live.

One day, I had enough. I couldn't stay in Aurora anymore. I didn't want a life like this—predictable and safe. If I stayed, I'd end up in a corner office, married to a dull but well-brought-up man, probably with a career in something like insurance or perhaps local government. We'd have two kids, we'd stock up on groceries each week in the local mall, visit the cinema once a month, and we'd live in a house similar to Aunt May and Uncle Roger's. I couldn't do that. I had to leave.

For the next two-and-a-half years, I backpacked through South America and Southeast Asia, before volunteering to teach English and math at a charity-funded elementary school in rural Sudan. I was there almost another two years before I got the news. By the time I heard, they'd both been gone for weeks. The funeral had already passed, and I wasn't there to say goodbye.

Pain and guilt twist in my chest. I should've been here when they needed me. I could have helped nurse Uncle Roger and taken some of the burden from Aunt May. Maybe she'd still be alive if I hadn't been so selfish. I never even thanked them, let alone said goodbye.

I close my eyes, pushing the grief down. I won't cry. I can't. I breathe deeply, letting the sorrow wash over me, but refusing to let it linger. Instead, I focus on happier memories—laughing at Uncle Roger's terrible jokes, learning how to cook from Aunt May, and watching episodes ofERwith the two of them on Thursday nights.

As the grief passes, I open my eyes. The house feels hollow, a reminder of too much pain, too much boredom. It's suffocating. I can't stay here for more than a night or two.

Perhaps I'll sell it. Find somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

A knock at the door startles me. Turning, I find someone has let themselves in.

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