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I look outside, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I head to the shed and notice the four-wheeler is missing. I don’t like them out on it without an adult. Leave it to my kids to galivant wherever they want. They have no respect for authority.
I don’t hear the machine, so they’re either way too far away from the house or crashed the damn thing.
I head in my truck and pray they’re not lying in a ditch somewhere. If they’re not, they’re gonna get an earful from me.
I’m driving across the grass, probably chopping it up with my thick rubber tires, for a solid five minutes, looking in what I think are the obvious places for them to ride a four-wheeler. They’re nowhere to be seen.
I head around the lines of the property, hoping they were smart enough to stay on our land. As I’m rounding a bend, a familiar tower peers out from the trees.
The stone structure was something that caught my interest when I first looked at the property. According to the realtor, it had been built by the previous landowner in memory of his late wife and her love of the children’s storyThe Secret Garden. It’s half an acre in size with a main tower that’s two stories high and a spiral staircase, shrubbery mazes, fishponds, all enclosed by a brick wall. I know all that because I studied the plans for the space, hoping to revitalize it for my family. I made sketches of it exactly as it once had been and then hoped to make the inside a family room with toys and books.
A place to relax, away from electronic devices and the noise of the outside world.
A place where my kids could be imaginative.
Where my family could be a family again.
The tower looks different. It’s almost whiter somehow. I start driving toward it, curious about its state. I can only imagine the garden has grown into greater disrepair since I gave up on it.
What would be the point of making a space made for joy when everything was falling apart around us?
I suppose this is where I admit I’ve been a bit depressed the past few years.
Thank God Will’s not here. He’d have a field day, tearing me apart mentally, bit by bit.
I park the truck near the garden and see the four-wheeler parked nearby. I get out and walk around to the opening in the wall.
My eyes can’t believe what they’re seeing.
I’m so speechless that even my thoughts take a second to reel in where I am.
It’s … magical.
I’m standing on a cobblestone path I didn’t know was here from the amount of moss that covered it years ago. The path is flanked by two fishponds of water so clear that I can see the bright orange fish swimming around. A frog leaps nearby and brings my attention to the flower beds, full of vibrant wildflowers, thriving in abundance in the sunlight. Some of the plants are so tall that they create a wall between the path I’m on and another on the other side of the flower bed. I walk around, zigzagging through the garden, amazed at its beauty. It’s even more ethereal than what I drew in my pictures. I have chills radiating through my bones as a butterfly chases another. I let out a laugh. It’s crazy to laugh when you’re by yourself, but it’s all so surreal that I don’t know what else to do.
I look at the tower. The large door is closed. I walk up to it and look at the concrete structure. I run my hand over the door and note the lack of dust and lean forward to smell paint varnish.
I open the door. My mind is completely blown away by what I see. A room, just as I created in my sketchbook, complete with a bookcase, two leather chairs, and a chess table. There are games lined up on the side and photos of me, Jesse, and Molly hung on the walls.
It’s brighter in here with light-yellow walls and a yellow-and-blue carpet.
Molly and Jesse appear in the doorway, looking like they’ve seen a ghost. My presence isn’t what they were expecting.
“Dad,” Jesse starts, clearly worried about something. “You’re not supposed to be here. I guess you can be here. We just didn’t think you would … yet.” He runs his hands through that unkempt mop of hair. “Are you mad?”
I look at Molly, who is wearing a matching expression. My children are actually frightened of me.
“Why would I be mad?” I ask them evenly.
“Because you hate this place,” Molly says, her bottom teeth showing with how she’s grimacing. “We remember you coming out here a lot, and then you just stopped.”
I nod. They’re not wrong. In fact, my kids are more in tune to life than I’ve ever given them credit for.
Gesturing to the room, I ask them, “Who did all this?”
“We did,” Jesse says.
“You two did all this? What exactly did you do?”
