Chapter 8 - Winter in the Orchard
Six months passed, turning the golden autumn leaves of Granville into a serene, snow-covered winter wonderland.
The farmhouse had become a home filled with warmth, laughter, and light. Daniel had refinished the wide-plank oak floors, installed a high-efficiency wood stove in the living room, and built a custom cedar swing for the front porch. The forty-acre property, which had sat dormant for years, was coming alive. With Dad’s help, we had pruned the apple orchards, restored the old red barn, and started a small organic honey apiary.
Julian, now a thriving one-year-old with a head full of golden-brown curls, was taking his first wobbly steps across the braided living room rug.
Every Sunday, the farmhouse kitchen was packed with family. Helen would bring freshly baked cinnamon rolls, Dad would sit by the hearth carving wooden toys for Julian, and Daniel’s union brothers would stop by to help chop firewood or plan spring garden beds.
There was no tension. No walking on eggshells. No performative status games.
One snowy Sunday in December, as the family sat around the dinner table eating pot roast and drinking hot cider, a quiet knock sounded at the front door.
Daniel and I exchanged a puzzled look. The snow on the driveway was nearly six inches deep.
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Daniel walked to the entryway and opened the heavy wooden door.
Standing on the porch, wrapped in a dark wool coat with snow dusting her graying hair, was Margaret.
