The woman in the $15,000 coat was crying into her hands beside my broken truck. And all I could think about was how Emma would react if I came home late again. Her school counselor had warned me about consistency. How 7-year-olds process abandonment differently than adults. How every broken promise becomes proof that the people they love disappear.
I’d been trying so hard to be enough for her since Sarah died. But standing there in those October woods with a stranger’s desperation filling the air between us, I realized I might have just failed her again. The woman looked up when my boots crunched through the fallen leaves. Her makeup had run in dark streaks down her cheeks.

And there was something wild in her eyes that reminded me of Emma during her worst nightmares. That look of someone drowning in plain sight. She was maybe 40 with silver threading through dark hair that had probably cost more to style than I made in a week at the lumberm mill. Everything about her screamed money and power except for the way she was falling apart.
I’m sorry, she said. Her voice like she’d been screaming. I didn’t know anyone else was out here. I can call someone, too. She fumbled for a phone that wasn’t there, patting down pockets with increasing panic. Ma’am, you’re bleeding. I nodded toward her hands. Where scratches from brambles had torn through her pale skin, and unless you’ve got a helicopter coming, you’re about 4 miles from the nearest road that isn’t this logging trail.
She stared at me like I’d spoken a foreign language behind her. Wrapped around the thick trunk of an old pine was what remained of a black Mercedes that probably cost more than my house. The front end was accordion folded, steam rising from the engine block, and I could smell radiator fluid mixing with the sharp scent of autumn air.

I was driving too fast, she whispered. I always drive too fast when I’m She trailed off looking around the woods like she’d never seen trees before. God, where am I? About 20 minutes outside Milfield. If you know where that is. I kept my voice gentle. The same tone I used when Emma woke up from bad dreams. I’m Jack Morrison. I live just down the mountain with my daughter.
What’s your name? She hesitated and I saw something flicker across her face. Fear maybe. Or calculation. Catherine, she said finally. Catherine Wells. The name meant nothing to me then. Though I’d learned later that Catherine Wells owned half the tech companies whose products filled every home in America. At that moment, she was just a woman who’d crashed her car in the middle of nowhere, bleeding and scared and completely out of her element.

Well, Catherine, my truck died about 10 minutes before I found you. So, we’re both stranded until my friend Pete gets here with his tow truck. You want to sit down? You look like you might fall over. I led her to a fallen log that made a decent bench, and she collapsed onto it like her legs had given out.
Up close, I could see she was shaking, not from cold, but from something deeper. The kind of tremor that comes from holding herself together too tightly for too long until something finally snaps. I don’t understand what happened, she said, staring at her scratched hands. I was just driving and then there was this turn and I couldn’t.
I’ve been driving for 25 years. I don’t make mistakes like this. Sometimes our bodies know things our minds aren’t ready to admit. I said, settling beside her on the log. Maybe you needed to stop. She looked at me sharply. Stop what? whatever you were running from. The words hung between us and I immediately regretted them.
This woman didn’t need some small town single dad playing therapist. She probably had actual therapists. Teams of them, expensive ones who’d gone to universities I couldn’t even pronounce. But something in her expression softened like I’d accidentally said something true. You don’t know who I am. Do you? She asked. Should I? For the first time since I’d found her. She almost smiled.
No, maybe that’s better. We sat in silence for a while, listening to the October wind move through the trees and the distant sound of Pete’s truck grinding up the mountain road. Catherine had stopped shaking, but she kept looking around the woods like she was seeing them for the first time.

Really seeing them, not just as obstacles to get past. It’s beautiful here, she said quietly. My wife used to say that. Sarah, she loved these woods. I picked up a handful of fallen leaves, letting them sift through my fingers. She’d bring Emma up here when she was little. Teach her the names of trees and birds. Emma still remembers some of it.
Your wife. She’s not cancer. 2 years ago. The words still felt strange in my mouth, like they belong to someone else’s story. Emma was five when we lost her. Some days I think she’s doing better than I am. Catherine was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. I lost someone, too.

My son, not to Kerto, to my choices. I waited, knowing from experience that grief has its own timing, its own rhythm that can’t be rushed. His name was David. She continued, “He’d be 22 now. I haven’t seen him in 3 years. What happened? She laughed. But there was no humor in it. I happened. I built an empire, made billions, conquered every market I touched, and I missed every birthday, every school play, every moment that mattered.

When his father and I divorced, David chose to live with him. said he was tired of being an appointment in my calendar. The pain in her voice was raw, immediate, like a fresh wound. I’d heard that tone before in my own voice, talking to Emma’s counselor about all the ways I was failing to fill the space Sarah had left behind.
3 years is a long time, I said. But it’s not forever. You don’t understand. I tried calling, sending letters, showing up at his college. He won’t see me. His father says I traumatized him. That I was never really a mother. Just a woman who happened to give birth, her hands clenched into fists. Maybe he’s right. No. The word came out harder than I intended.
No, he’s not right. I’ve seen real bad parents, Catherine. They don’t cry in the woods about their mistakes. They don’t drive themselves into trees because they can’t figure out how to fix what they broke. She stared at me and I saw something shift in her expression surprise. Maybe. Or hope so fragile it was almost invisible.
You think that’s what this was? An accident? because I was what? Having a breakdown? I think you’re human. I think you love your son and you don’t know how to reach him. And I think that kind of pain has to go somewhere. I gestured toward the wreckage of her car. Sometimes it goes there. Pete’s truck rounded the bend then.
Diesel engine growling and yellow lights flashing. He climbed out with a wave. took one look at the Mercedes and let out a low whistle. Well, somebody had themselves a day, he said, pulling on his work gloves. You folks hurt? We’re okay. I said, “Just need a ride back to town.” “No problem. Give me 20 minutes to get this beast loaded up.” While Pete worked, Catherine and I walked back to the log.
She’d gotten quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet. Thoughtful instead of desperate. Jack, she said finally. Can I ask you something? Sure. How do you do it? Raise a daughter alone? Work? Keep everything together? I had nannies and housekeepers and assistants, and I still couldn’t manage to be present for one child.

I thought about Emma that morning, how she’d insisted on making my lunch, even though she’d gotten peanut butter on everything, including herself. How she’d drawn a picture of the two of us holding hands and stuck it in my lunchbox with a note that said, “Love you, Daddy.” in her careful 7-year-old handwriting. “I don’t keep everything together,” I said.
Half the time I feel like I’m drowning. But Emma, she needs me to try. So I try. Some days that’s enough. What if it’s too late? What if I waited too long to try? I looked at her. Really looked underneath all that expensive polish. She was just scared. Scared and sorry. and desperate to fix something she wasn’t sure could be fixed.
Emma’s counselor told me something once. I said, she said, “Kids don’t need perfect parents. They need parents who show up, who admit their mistakes, who keep trying even when it’s hard. Maybe, especially when it’s hard.” Catherine was quiet for a long time. Pete had gotten the Mercedes loaded and was securing the chains.

the metal scraping against metal in the afternoon silence. I don’t know how to show up, she said finally. I’ve spent so many years being Catherine Wells CEO that I forgot how to just be David’s mom. Then maybe start there, not with grand gestures or expensive gifts, just to be his mom. Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him you love him.
Tell him you want to learn how to do better. What if he won’t listen? Then you keep trying. You keep showing up. Even if he slams the door, especially if he slams the door, because that’s what love does. It doesn’t give up. Pete called out that he was ready. And we walked toward his truck.
Catherine moved slowly like she was carrying something heavy. Jock, she said as we reached the truck. Thank you for not treating me like what I am. What are you? She smiled. And for the first time, it reached her eyes. A woman who crashes cars in the woods because she misses her son. Then that’s how I’ll remember you. The ride back to town was quiet.
Pete dropped Catherine at the local motel only lodging Milfield had to offer and drove me home. Emma was waiting on the porch, her backpack still on drawing in the sketchbook Sarah had given her before she died. Daddy, she launched herself into my arms and I held her tight, breathing in the smell of crayon, wax, and strawberry shampoo.
You’re late. I was worried. I’m sorry, baby. I had to help someone. Someone hurt. Someone sad. Emma nodded seriously. At 7, she had an instinctive understanding of sadness that broke my heart and made me proud at the same time. Did you make them feel better? I hope so. That night after Emma was asleep, I sat on the porch and thought about Katherine Wells, about the way she’d looked at the woods like she was seeing beauty for the first time, about the pain in her voice when she talked about her son.
I wondered if she was sitting in that motel room right now, staring at her phone, trying to find the courage to make a call. Two weeks later, I was loading lumber at the mill when Pete found me. You remember that woman from the woods? The one with the fancy car, Catherine? Yeah. What about her? Got a call from her this morning.

She’s buying the old Henderson place up on Ridge Road. Cash offer. Full asking price. Says she wants to fix it up. Maybe stay a while. I stopped what I was doing. The Henderson place had been empty for 3 years. Ever since old man Henderson moved to the nursing home, it was a good house. Solid bones, but it needed work. A lot of work.
She say why? Beat Shro just said she was looking for somewhere quiet to think. Asked if I knew any good contractors. I gave him the names of a couple guys I trusted. But something told me Katherine Wells wasn’t just looking for a quiet place to think. She was looking for a place to start over. To figure out how to be someone different than she’d been.
3 months later, on a cold January morning, Emma and I were walking to school when we saw a woman sitting on the steps of the post office holding an envelope like it might explode. She looked familiar, but it took me a moment to recognize her without the expensive coat and desperate expression. Catherine.

She looked up and I saw tears in her eyes, but these were different tears than the ones I’d seen in the woods. These looked like relief. Jack. Hi. She stood up, brushing snow off her jeans. She was dressed like everyone else in Milfield. Now, practical clothes. Warm boots. No pretense. I was hoping I’d see you.

Everything okay? She held up the envelope. Letter from David. He wants to see me. He’s driving up from the city next weekend. That’s wonderful. I’m terrified. She laughed. But it was a good laugh this time. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I mess it up again? Emma tugged on my coat. Daddy, who’s the lady? Emma, this is Catherine. She’s a friend of mine.
Catherine knelt down to Emma’s level, and her whole demeanor changed, softened, became uncertain in a way that was oddly endearing. Hi, Emma. Your dad helped me once when I was having a really bad day. Were you sad like me when mommy died? The question caught Catherine off guard and I saw her eyes fill again. Yes, sweetheart.
I was sad about someone I love very much. Did daddy make you feel better? He’s really good at that. Catherine looked up at me, smiling through her tears. Yes, I did. He reminded me that love doesn’t give up. That’s what mama used to say. Emma nodded sagely. She said, “Love is like planting seeds. Sometimes it takes a long time to grow, but if you keep watering it, something beautiful happens.
” Catherine was quiet for a long moment, looking at my 7-year-old daughter like she just heard something profound. Your mommy sounds very wise, she said finally. She was. Daddy says I’m like her sometimes. I can see that. We walked Emma to school together. And on the way back, Catherine told me about the letter, how David had written that he’d been thinking about her, that he was ready to try if she was, how she’d read it 17 times. afraid it might disappear.

I bought books, she said, about how to rebuild relationships with adult children. I’ve been practicing conversations in the mirror. Catherine. What? Just be yourself. Not CEO Catherine Wells. Just David’s mom who misses him and wants to do better. She stopped walking. What if that’s not enough? I thought about Emma’s words, about Sarah’s belief that love was like planting seeds, about all the ways we fail, the people we love, and all the ways we keep trying anyway, then you keep showing up, you keep planting seeds, and maybe, if
you’re patient enough, something beautiful grows. The weekend David came to visit. Half the town saw the young man with his mother’s eyes walking down Main Street, his arm around her shoulders. They had coffee at Mabel’s Diner, bought groceries at Peterson’s Market, spent hours sitting on her porch talking.
By Sunday, when he left, something had shifted between them. You could see it in the way they hugged goodbye. long and tight like they were making up for lost time. Catherine stayed in Milfield. She turned the Henderson place into something beautiful, not fancy, just warm and real. She learned to garden from Mrs.
Peterson joined the volunteer fire department, helped coach Emma’s soccer team. Even though she’d never played a sport in her life, she was still Catherine Wells. Still brilliant and successful, but she’d figured out how to be other things, too. David visited every month, then every other weekend.

Eventually, he brought a girlfriend. Then a fiance. Catherine cried at their wedding happy tears. The kind that come from knowing you didn’t miss everything after all. Emma’s eight now. And sometimes she and Catherine sit on our porch drawing together while I make dinner. They talk about art and dreams and the way love grows in unexpected places.
Catherine never tries to replace Sarah. She wouldn’t know how. And Emma wouldn’t let her. But she’s become something else, something new and necessary in our small world. Last week, Emma asked me why I helped Catherine that day in the woods. Because she needed help. I said, “But you didn’t know her?” “No, I didn’t.

” “Then why?” I thought about it for a long time before I answered. About the woman crying beside a broken truck. About the way desperation can make anyone a stranger to themselves. about the seeds we plant without knowing what will grow. Because sometimes, I said, finally, the people who look like they have everything are the ones who need help the most.
And sometimes helping someone else helps you figure out who you’re supposed to be. Emma nodded like this made perfect sense to her. At 8, she’s already wiser than I was at 35. to already understands that love is a choice we make every day. Not just for the people we know, but for the strangers who stumble into our lives carrying more pain than they know how to bear, Catherine’s building a meditation garden behind her house.

Now, with a bench facing the mountains and a stone path lined with flowers that bloom in different seasons, she says it’s a place for people to sit and think, to figure out what they need to do next. She says everyone should have a place like that, somewhere to stop running and start healing.
Emma helped her plant the seeds last spring. They’re growing now, slowly but surely. reaching toward the light the way all living things do when they’re given the chance. The way all of us do. I think when someone believes were worth the wait,