They both look genuinely apologetic. And how nice, that their love story has a happy ending after all. Maybe there’s hope for the rest of us who fall fast and hard.
My shock turns into elation.
“I’m so happy for you,” I say, wrapping my arms around them again. “This is amazing.”
They look relieved.
“We also have a surprise,” Mom says.
“You two being back together isn’t the surprise?” I ask.
She laughs. “There’s more. We’re going to drive out to the Kingdom tonight.”
Now I’m truly flummoxed. The Northeast Kingdom is where our family’s cottage is, on a few acres near Lake Willoughby.
As far as I know it’s sitting empty, waiting for some other family to buy it.
“Why would we go to the Kingdom?” I ask.
“To the cottage,” my mom says. “For Christmas.”
“I thought you were selling it.”
“That’s the surprise,” Dad says. “We decided to hang on to it until we knew what we were doing. We took it off the market. We’ve decided to move there full-time—together.”
“But what about your job?” I ask. My mom is retired, but my dad is still a middle school principal.
“I took early retirement,” he says. “Yesterday was my last day.”
“Holy shit,” I say.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” Mom says, biting her lip a bit guiltily.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say. I gesture at myself helplessly. “I’m about to fall over.”
“Let’s get your bags, kid,” Dad says. “We can talk it all out on the drive.”
The Kingdom is about two hours northeast of Burlington, so we stop for pizza on the way out of town. Over dinner, they give me the CliffsNotes version of their reconciliation. They spent time together at the cottage packing up their things while I was on the cruise. I knew they had been there together. What I did not know is that they had both felt the reality of their separation emptying out that house. They felt like they were ripping apart the life they’d built together, and it was devastating to see it packed away in boxes and sold.
First, they decided to go on some dates. Then they tried living together in my mom’s apartment, while still hanging on to my dad’s. And then they decided to burn their divorce papers in a ritual fire in the hearth of the cottage, let the leases on their apartments expire, and move there full-time.
That was last month.
They’ve already moved the furniture back in, so the house is mostly as I remember it, just with fewer knickknacks and forty-year-old copies ofReader’s Digest. I never minded the clutter, but now the space feels lighter.
My parents seem lighter too.
I go to sleep in my childhood bed and don’t wake up for nine hours. When I do, fresh snow has fallen. My parents are in the living room, reading books in front of the fire—a thick biography for him, a slim volume of poetry for her.
“Want some toast, honey?” Mom asks.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
While my mom putters in the kitchen I settle in my favorite armchair with my laptop.
“Not work, I hope?” Dad says. “You just got here.”
“No,” I say. “It’s my book.”
