CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OLIVEWASWRETCHED. But she was the one who had decided to go back to the States. She began to work at making arrangements for where she might go and be with her baby.
She began to think in earnest about what kind of life she would build. What kind of mother she would be.
It all started her thinking about who she was in a way she never had before.
She was resourceful, and resilient, she wanted to be soft. She had always been trained to be afraid to be. She didn’t like to ask for help, and right now it felt as if she needed a lot of help. But maybe that was better. Maybe it was training.
Because she needed to embrace some of the vulnerability inside of her so that she could soften for a baby.
She started to write a letter, one that had nothing to do with press releases or the media. One that simply felt good. A list of promises. Ones that she was determined to keep.
And she did her best not to dissolve.
But what if you did?
It was a profound question. And it was one that sent a crack down to the very depths of her soul.
What if she did?
And so she wept. Openly. With her whole body.
She wept for the little girl she’d been. Who had spent her childhood waiting outside of boardrooms. Who had been angry at Gunnar for eating her cupcake, but not at her father for giving her a birthday party where the only semblance of a treat was a cupcake that just happened to be there, not even for her specifically. One that didn’t make her special. One that didn’t matter at all.
She wept for her childhood. For her teenage years. For the fact that she had taken everything seriously all this time.
For the fact that Gunnar was the person she loved so very much, when what she wanted was something normal.
And she did not think they could ever have that.
She wept for so many things. And she didn’t feel weaker for it. Instead, she felt like she had found something new.
She was only very sorry that she had had to break her own heart to find it.
The helicopter pilot touched down in the snowfield, and Gunnar stepped out, standing before the darkened home.
He had bought it some years ago. Just to ensure that it stayed there.
He walked across the bleak, empty snowfield and pushed open the door.
It was impossibly cold, the fire in the hearth dead for these many years.
It was strange to see the place without so much as an ember.
The pipe was still there.
He walked over and touched it.
He wasn’t sure why he had left it the first time. Why he hadn’t kept it for himself.
Really, it did not make sense.
And yet, if he thought of it truthfully, it did. He had spent all these years running away from how much this place hurt.
He walked into the back bedroom, where the quilt his grandmother had made was still spread over the bed.
This was the only place where he had experienced love.