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Weston asked us—me and my daughter, Kaela—to move in with him last night.
He made the case after dinner when I was gathering all of Kaela’s things to pack into the diaper bag so we could head home.
For months now, we’ve been trekking across town to work and splitting our time between here and Weston’s cabin. Toting a sleepy baby night after night.
All of our things are spread out, and Weston decided a few weeks ago that he was going to outfit one of his spare bedrooms with furniture so Kaela would be comfortable in a crib instead of the pack ’n’ play when we did stay the night.
“I hate when you leave. It’s dark and snowy. Why don’t you stay tonight?” he asked.
“We haven’t been home in days. I need to go check on the house, collect the mail, and get new clothes for me and Kaela,” I started rattling off.
“Why don’t you two just move in here?”
I knew it was coming. It’s the next natural step in our relationship, but it will be hard to say good-bye to this place.
Mike was a firefighter, a hero who fought fires with unwavering bravery. It was that job, battling raging flames that were devouring the mountainside and threatening homes, that took him from me. He made the ultimate sacrifice to protect Balsam Ridge, and he left behind a legacy of courage and a heart full of love for me and Kaela—our precious baby girl he never got to meet.
She toddles around the front porch, her tiny fingers reaching for the wet snow that has gathered on one of the rocking chairs.
She has inherited her father’s bright blue eyes, infectious smile, and curious nature.
Every day as she grows, I see a new glimpse of Mike in her—a reminder of the love we shared.
I take a deep breath, the crisp scent of pine and wood burning filling my senses.
The memories of our first Christmas in this house flood back—our laughter as we decorated the tree he had cut down, the aroma of Mike’s famous spaghetti sauce wafting through the kitchen, and the nights spent cuddled up by the fireplace, watching holiday movies together. It was our dream home, a place where we planned to spend many joy-filled Christmas mornings together as we watched our family grow.
But life has a way of forcing us to pivot and create new dreams.
It wasn’t easy. The grief of losing the man I loved almost caused me to drown, but I had to push forward—for me and for Kaela.
Weston Tuttle was an unexpected blessing. He came along and helped me heal when I didn’t think it was possible.
A sweet, funny, and gentle soul who slowly and patiently mended the cracks in my heart.
We had crossed paths at community events before, and his brother was Mike’s boss and friend.
Our relationship started as a friendship, and when I began working for him last year, our connection grew stronger.
Love blossomed when I wasn’t looking for it and least expected it, like a flower pushing through the ashes of the burned forest.
How lucky am I to have found it not once, but twice in a lifetime?
I hear a truck engine rumble to a stop and the sound of the door opening and closing.
Weston appears by my side, and he scoops Kaela into his arms.
His strong and calming hand rests on my shoulder, grounding me in the present.
His blue eyes, filled with understanding, meet mine, and I know that I’m not alone in facing the memories of this house.
“Hey, baby,” he whispers. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
I nod, my throat tight with a mixture of emotions. “Yes. It’s time.”
He hands Kaela to me and walks back down to his truck. He pulls a sign from the back and carries it to the curb.
He plants it in the snow by the freshly shoveled sidewalk.
