The fire had settled into a steady rhythm, the flames casting long shadows across the log walls. I hadn't moved from my spot by the window, my palm still pressed against the cool glass, watching the last light bleed from the sky. Dad cleared his throat, the sound pulling me back to the room.
"The cabin's more rustic than I remembered," he said, a hint of apology in his voice. His gaze swept the space, taking in the single room, the stone hearth, the rough-hewn beams overhead. "No electricity. No running water—there's a hand pump out back I’ll need to test tomorrow.”
I watched his eyes trace the layout: the narrow pine bed in the corner with its faded patchwork quilt, the wooden ladder ascending to a loft barely tall enough to sit upright, the cast-iron wood stove standing ready. Two kerosene lamps sat on the table, unlit, their glass chimneys catching the last daylight.
"It’s perfect," I said, and meant it.
He set his duffel down beside the door and loosened his grip on the leather. "You take the bed," he said, brushing a stray splinter from his sweater. "I’ll take the loft."
I nodded, though my eyes lingered on the ladder. He didn't wait for me to argue. He moved to the hearth, kneeling to arrange split pine and birch bark. The match flared, catching the dry kindling. Smoke curled up the chimney with a soft sigh, then settled into the room, thick and woodsy. He fed it larger logs, and soon the fire was roaring, pushing back the chill of the early evening. The flames leaped and crackled, throwing dancing shadows against the walls.
We drink in silence at first, the fire doing the talking. Then he begins. Not with small talk. With the past. He tells me about my childhood—the summers I spent at his place while my mother worked double shifts at the clinic, the way I’d run through the tall grass behind his barn, how he’d watch me from the porch with a cold beer and a quiet smile. I’d never heard him put it into words. I always thought he just tolerated me, a guest in his own house. He corrects that gently. “I liked you,” he says. “More than I knew how to show.” The whiskey burns, but it’s a clean burn. It opens something loose in my chest. I tell him about the quiet loneliness of my own childhood, the way I’d hide in bookstores just to feel like I belonged somewhere, the way I’d map out escape routes in my head before I learned to sleep. He listens, really listens, his eyes tracking the firelight across my face. Then he turns it to himself. His marriage to my mother. Not the wedding, not the vows, but the unraveling. The missed dinners, the growing silence between them, the way he’d stay late at the office to avoid the house that felt too big and too empty. “I loved her,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a confession, just a fact. “But love isn’t enough when you’re both speaking different languages. I thought if I just worked hard enough, provided enough, she’d understand. I was wrong.” I ask about regrets. He doesn’t hesitate. “Staying quiet when I should’ve spoken. Letting her think I was indifferent when I was just afraid. Missing the moments that mattered because I was too busy building a future I never got to see.” The words hang in the smoky air. I look at him properly for the first time. The firelight catches the silver at his temples, the deep lines around his eyes, the way his jaw tightens when he’s holding something back. But it’s his gaze that stops me. It’s different. Softer. Unguarded. The father I knew was always measured, distant, a man who showed care through actions rather than words. Now, under the flickering woodsmoke, he’s something else entirely. Present. Vulnerable. I feel it like a shift in the air pressure. The cabin feels smaller, or maybe I’m just standing closer than I realized. He doesn’t look away. The whiskey warms my throat, my stomach, my chest. The fire pops. Somewhere outside, a branch cracks under the weight of snow. We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
He finally sets his glass down. “I’ll check the loft,” he says, voice rougher now. He climbs the ladder, the wood groaning softly under his boots. I watch him go, the thin mattress waiting above, the ceiling pressing down. I stay by the fire, letting the embers do their work. I strip down to my thermal layers, pull the faded quilt over my shoulders, and lie back on the narrow bed. It’s not soft, but it’s mine. The fire burns low, glowing red beneath a layer of ash. I can hear him moving up in the loft—the rustle of a blanket, the creak of wood, the slow exhale of someone settling in. The cabin holds us like a secret. Outside, the wind moves through the pines, a steady breath against the logs. I close my eyes. The whiskey hums in my veins. The firelight paints the ceiling in amber. And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to break. I just am.