The Shack

Emily carefully sliced the certified envelope with her wooden letter opener, and even though she already knew the words inside, her hands still had a slight tremble in the formality of it all. Days earlier, on a random Wednesday, while walking up the porch steps with a grocery bag in hand, an unfamiliar number rang on her phone, and she decided to tap the green button and take the call. A lawyer in Maine… her estranged father… he was dead… a basic will… it would be explained in a letter.

The letter was simple and surprisingly friendlier than she expected, being that it came from an attorney’s office. Paper with a soft linen feel and a handwritten note with kind words paper-clipped to the front, telling her how the lawyer and her father had been friends for years, meeting for coffee once a week at the harbor cafe.

Details continued, and Emily could feel all the regret and sadness in the checklist - all she and her father had lost because they were too stubborn to mend old wounds. A memory flashed back when she was a teen of how her father took the classic ‘apple not falling far from the tree’ proverb and instead would say, “Emmie, the anchor never splashes far from the boat!” He would laugh, and she would roll her eyes.

She skimmed the rest of the letter, taking note he didn’t have many assets, but he did own his little shack outright - the one he’d spent all his years in and was now hers. A phone number at the bottom of the letter belonged to her father’s neighbor, letting her know that the neighbor would let her into the little house when she was ready.

Days later, she sped up the tree-lined highway toward Maine; an overnight bag, a thick sweater, and her favorite bed pillow all sat on the backseat behind her. The long drive gave her time to think about all these lost years. What was the last thing they argued about? It all seemed like petty stuff now that he was gone.

As she entered town, the narrow roads became familiar again—the hardware store with the bench out front and The Quilting Cottage still painted pink. She turned down Barge Street, took a right on Ash, and there it was, the little red shack her dad had called home.

She turned off the car and sat motionless, studying it for some time. She imagined her father walking up the crooked, weathered steps, sitting in the wicker chair smoking his afternoon pipe and she could almost hear a neighbor waving a friendly hello and a tourist asking him for directions.

A knock on the passenger window startled her out of the memories. The neighbor stood outside with a friendly smile, holding one lone worn key in her hand.

“Well, you must be Emily!” the neighbor said warmly, “I feel like I already know you so well. Your father always talked about you, and he just adored…” Her sentence trailed off as Emily’s eyes began to glisten with tears.

The neighbor continued with more reserved words, “Well anyway, here is the key, and the house is just as your father left it. For an old stubborn codger, you’ll be happy to know that he kept a clean, tidy home. It was the sailor in him.”

The neighbor gave a quick, hesitant hug and hollered, “Please knock on my door if you need anything.” as she walked back to her home.

Emily let out a quiet “Thank you.”, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door. The door let out a soft creak as she took her first tentative steps inside and it was as she remembered, as if time had stopped.

His oversized chair faced the small television and there was still a round ring on the windowsill where he set his morning coffee cup. The framed photos on the paneled wall, the one when he was young, covered in head-to-toe camouflage, his arm slung over his brother’s shoulder with the family dog named Blue at their feet. She chuckled a little when she looked closer at the photo of her on his fishing boat. She must have been 8 or 9 with a wide-gapped smile as she stood in her favorite yellow rain slicker with a blue anchor pattern.

She took her time walking through the house, running her hand along the teak kitchen counter, touching his tarnished bowling trophy still perched on the corner desk, peeking into his simple upstairs bedroom with plaid pillowcases and an oval rag-rug on the side of the bed. And then something caught her eye on his dresser.

A note.

“My dearest Emmie. All my stubbornness robbed me of precious years with you, and I’m so sorry. Please forgive this old man of yours. Well, I guess if you’re reading this, I’m more than old now - I’m a goner.” Emily snorted a laugh through her tears. “You were my brightest light, and I’ve always been so proud of you.

This old shack is now yours, and even though it’s a bit rickety, the land it sits on is worth something nowadays. I won’t blame you if you sell it all and let someone tear it down for one of those fancy annoying boutiquey hotels. But if you decide to keep it, that would be nice too. I’ll come find you wherever you are. My buddy Chuck says I’ll probably be reincarnated as a seagull for punishment, so if you ever see a scrappy-looking bird hanging around on the roof, toss up a few bread crumbs because it’s probably me. Anyway. Gosh darn it, I love you and I’ll be watching over you from up high.”

Emily wiped the tears on the sleeve of her shirt, took a cleansing exhale that she’d been holding for every year they had not spoken, and gave a healing smile. She lifted the window and parted the curtains to let the sea air in. She stripped the bedding, and as the wash was tumbling, she brought in her bag and unpacked the few items she had, squeezing his shirts over in the drawer and sharing the space.

She was unsure how this would all unfold in the coming months, but for now, she knew she would find a way to call his place home. Her staying here would be a small way of letting him know that she was sorry too and everything was alright between them now.

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[photograph by me - story is fictional]

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