I hated winter break. Besides having to come back home from school and spend time with my mother, the snow never stopped falling, trapping me inside the house.

With my mother.

There was only so much she could take of me and vice-versa.

It had been only nine days—and one winter storm—and I was already done. Ready to leave. But there was still five days until I had to go back to school. And most roads were still closed because of the damn snow.

I gave it another day before I lost my mind. Or before my mother and I started yelling at each other. We hadn’t yet, which was a miracle, but we had avoided spending time together—as much as one could inside a small townhouse.

Bored out of my mind, I rolled onto my back on my twin bed and opened the Instagram app … for the two-hundredth time today.

And instantly regretted it.

My best friend from school, Joanne, kept posting pictures of her annual family vacation. Every year, her big family got together during winter break and went away on some awesome trip. Last year, it was Greece. The year before it had been China. This year, it was Cancun.

As much as I hated looking at her pictures, I also loved them. She posted many, many photos of the beautiful, clear blue ocean, and each time I stared at it my heart squeezed. I missed the ocean. I hadn’t been anywhere close to the ocean since my mother decided we had to move out of Willow Harbor five years ago.

It had been so sudden, at least to me it had seemed that way. One day, she was fine and dandy and friendly—our relationship was much better back then—the next day she started packing, saying she had gotten a better job offer. A couple of days later, we had moved to Mobridge, South Dakota.

And our relationship changed from wine to water.

I never understood why we had moved from Willow Harbor, or why she started shutting me out and being rude to me. Maybe it was just my fifteen-year-old-self who thought she was mean. Maybe I had been the mean one, but I had made her the bad guy in my mind.

The damage was done and now we just endured each other.

Oh, I missed the ocean and Willow Harbor. To be honest, my memories of Willow Harbor were hazy. It was like I had left the small beach town when I was eight, not fifteen. I would think I would remember things better, but no. Everything seemed covered by a cloud of fog in my mind.

Everything but a clear picture of the ocean.

Sighing, I dropped my phone and stared at the ceiling. Next year, I would get a job during winter break. Maybe at a ski resort or some other place where it would be busy. I didn’t care, as long as I didn’t have to come home.

The sound of a car approaching had me jumping off my bed and racing to the window. A car? Today? I thought the roads were still snow-covered and dangerous.

To my surprise, our road looked mostly clear. I guess the snowplows had been working overtime to clear everything. After all, people had to go back to work, and I had to go back to school soon.

But it wasn’t just a car. It was the mailman. He stopped his little mail truck in front of our house, and from the lowered window, placed a stack of mail into our mailbox.

I put on my coat and hat and mittens and my snow boots and ventured outside.

The chilly wind greeted me, and I cursed under my breath. I wasn’t cut out for this much cold and snow. The winter storm had just passed, and the forecast was for more snow tonight. How could someone live like this?

I was sick of snow.

I walked through the white fluff, a scowl of disgust stamped on my face. I stomped hard, as if I could hurt the snow and show my discontent.

As fast as I could, I grabbed the mail and came back inside. I took off my gloves and hat, and shuffled through the stack—cable company ads, credit card offers, the water and garbage bills, a bank statement, more ads, and … a letter for me?

I flipped the fancy, thin beige envelop. My name and address were written in curly handwriting and there was no return address, only a stamp from the post office.

Willow Harbor.

I left the other mail on the console table along the foyer and sat down on the stairs, staring at the beautiful envelope. Who could have sent me a letter from Willow Harbor? Even though we tried to keep in touch, Lillian and I had stopped talking years ago.

Careful not to ruin the beautiful envelope, I ripped a corner and pulled out the thin, white paper. It was a short letter, written in the same fancy handwriting from the envelope.

---

Dear Brooke,

I don’t even know how to start this letter. I guess I just wanted to say hi. To ask you if you’re well, what you’re up to. To tell you I think about you every day and hope you’re happy and well. Also to tell you I care about you and wish I could meet you.

That’s it.

Stay safe. Be happy.

With love,

Your father

---

I gasped and dropped the letter as if it had burned me. No, this couldn’t be. It wasn’t true. My father? Sending me a letter? Now? Why?

My mother had never uttered a word about my father to me. I didn’t know his name, where he lived, even if he was still alive. I didn’t even know if they had been madly in love, or married, or just dating when I came to be.

But there was one thing I knew now. My father lived in Willow Harbor.

I heard some noise coming from the kitchen and looked that way. My mother was probably starting lunch. The wheels in my mind began spinning.

I took off my jacket, placed it on the stairs with the letter hidden inside, and then grabbed the stack of mail and marched to the back of the house.

“The mailman just stopped by,” I said, entering the kitchen.

My mother looked up from the chop board and the carrots. In some ways, we looked a lot alike. I had gotten the thick, long hair from her, though hers was a shade or two lighter. I also inherited her high cheekbones, her fair skin, and her lean figure. But the similarities ended there. “Today? After all that snow? I didn’t expect him to come for a few days.”

“I know, right?” I placed the stack of mail on the small kitchen island. Like everything in this house, the kitchen was small and old. My mother was a simple bank clerk after all. We had never had a lot of money to afford new or big things. “Want help?” I asked, wondering how to broach the subject. If I knew us well, an argument was about to ensue.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “You want to help me?”

I shrugged. “There’s nothing better to do.”

“I don’t have a lot to do,” she said. She pointed the knife to the cabinet behind her. “You can set the table, I guess.”

I walked past her and grabbed two plates. “So, Mom, hm … I wanted to ask you something.”

“I knew there was something more to this.” She stopped what she was doing and stared at me, her gray eyes annoyed and her mouth set into a thin line. “What?”

I opened my mouth, but the words got stuck on my throat.

Damn, how did I ask this? “Hey, Mom, can you tell me about my father?” or “What was my father’s name?” or “Why didn’t you tell me my father lived in Willow Harbor?”

None of those sounded like a good conversation opener.

I sighed. “I was just wondering if you would be mad at me if I went back to school a couple of days early? My friends are planning a party.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care.” She looked down at her carrots and forgot about me.

As usual.

I ignored the painful lump lodged in my chest at her dismissal.