Page 32 of Hope and Hot Chocolate on Mistletoe Lane

We walked back towards the farmhouse together as the day moved towards twilight. The birch trees swayed in the breeze. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think about lighting those trees up!’ I said, pointing to them. ‘Have you ever done that before?’

‘I don’t think so. We’ve always decorated the farmhouse but not the trees. That would look stunning. I’d have to check if our generator can handle it, though. Dylan said he would decorate the farmhouse when he does the cottages and make sure it looks good as people will see it when they park for the winter wonderland. Oh, and Dylan said he’s struggling to find anyone who wants to sell their crafts here; they all seem to be booked up at Christmas fairs and events already. But what else would we have in that tunnel?’

We walked inside the cosy farmhouse where the Aga kept things warm. Maple was asleep in her bed and the smell of a stew in the slow cooker made me instantly hungry. I was getting used to home-cooked meals again here.

‘That’s a shame.’ I hesitated as an idea came to me. ‘My mum might be able to help; I should have thought of that before. I’ll talk to her.’

‘Great, thanks.’

After dinner, I phoned my mum and asked her about local business and what we might do about our craft tunnel.

‘Why don’t you come for lunch tomorrow and we can talk about it?’ she asked. ‘You don’t have to work all Saturday, do you?’

I was sat cross-legged on my bed upstairs. My room at the farm was so cosy, I kept wondering how I could make my apartment feel the same way because it really didn’t. I thought about my mum’s cottage then. That had had the same feeling as the farmhouse when I was young. I had no idea how it would feel now, though.

‘I don’t know, Mum.’ I hadn’t stepped foot inside since I’d left for the city. All I could think about was the morning my dad sat us down in the living room and said he was leaving Birchbrook to be with the woman he’d been having an affair with. My mum had looked so shocked, I was worried she might pass out. I had cried and begged him to stay but he’d left an hour later. I’d looked out the kitchen window as he’d packed up his car and driven off without a second glance.

‘I understand,’ she said quietly, but I could hear her voice shake a little bit.

Suddenly, I realised my mum had done the same thing when I had left. She’d looked out of the kitchen window as I’d packed my car and driven off without a backward glance. She must have been devastated all over again when I had gone, and just like my dad, I hadn’t ever returned.

‘I guess I could,’ I said slowly, feeling guilty and ashamed. I hadn’t wanted to be like my father but I feared that maybe I was.

‘You really would come?’ she asked, her voice full of hope.

‘I’ll come, Mum,’ I said, knowing that it would be hard but I couldn’t hide from where I came from forever. I told her I’d be over at lunchtime and she seemed so excited that when I hung up, I felt like the world’s worst daughter. I had thought a lot about what coming back to Birchbrook would mean for me; I hadn’t thought about my mum or Paul here without me. I’d been pretty selfish, I was realising now. All to try to protect myself from being hurt again. All to try to move on from the past. But all I had really done was put it in a box and closed the lid tightly, too scared to ever peek inside again. That probably wasn’t healthy.

It certainly hadn’t made me happy either.

24

HOLLY

The house I grew up in was tucked into the corner of a road within walking distance to Birchbrook’s High Street. It was partly hidden from sight by a large oak tree that must have been hundreds of years old. Today, a lot of the leaves had fallen so the bark allowed the cottage to peep through. I parked outside, switched off the engine and looked at it. It was one of those cottages that could have been plucked right off of a Christmas card. Or used as a location for a Christmas romance where the love of your life just knocks at the door one night. The front was painted a pretty cream, and ivy climbed over half of it, arching over the oak front door. It was topped off with a thatched roof that cost a lot to keep in good shape and the sash windows were framed by green shutters.

I couldn’t get out of the car for a moment.

Memories played like a movie…

Me learning to ride my bike outside.

The crackling of the log fire in the lounge during the winter.

Running downstairs on Christmas morning to look for my stocking on the mantlepiece and excitedly unwrap presents under the tree.

The smell of sizzling of bacon on a Sunday morning when my mum used to make a cooked breakfast for us.

The pictures I’d drawn as a kid stuck on the fridge.

The radio my dad had on most mornings playing sounds of the seventies, which he considered the best musical era.

Sitting at the kitchen table with Paul to do our homework, eating cookies he’d brought us from the café.

I shook my head. The nostalgia was threatening to paralyse me. From both the good memories and at the edge of my thoughts, the bad ones, which were trying to creep in.

I got out of my car and walked slowly to the door, thinking about the day I left. I had been so sure leaving was the right thing to do even though it broke my heart in two. I hadn’t told anyone how much it had hurt to go; I’d kept it locked up tightly with so many other things: how my dad’s betrayal had made it hard for me to trust people, how the taunts and teasing at school had made me angry at my mum for not seeing what was going on, how her telling me to speak to my dad made me feel like she didn’t care he’d left… and how much I wanted to tell Paul I thought of him as more than a friend but how scared I was that he would hurt me just like my dad had.

The worst part was how so many of those things were still true ten years later.