After Dan left for work, I sat out on the balcony outside our bedroom for a while considering what I wanted to do with my day. I thought about driving around the island, checking out shops and galleries, but I just wasn’t into that idea. This was the first time in my adult life that I didn’t have a job and the free time while I figured out my next step was a novelty.

I only knew I didn’t want to spend the day alone like I’d done since arriving. Marie, the owner of the B&B Dan and I had stayed at when we first got here, had extended an open invitation to visit her, and I figured today was as good a day as any to take her up on the offer.

I got into our Tesla Model S and drove to the Madrona Bed and Breakfast. As the scenery passed by my window I once again couldn’t help but be in awe of how beautiful everything was. Massive trees and hills in more shades of green than I had ever seen surrounded me, magnificent and lush.

I drove for a little bit before turning off onto a smaller road. While not very well paved, it was well taken care of. I soon pulled up to a large house with a barn not much smaller than the main house. Several cars were parked in front of a short picket fence which might have been white at one time but was now varying shades of brown. While in most cases it would make the fence look decrepit, the distressing made it look charming. Shrubs and tulips ran all along the bottom of it, and the simple beauty made me smile.

The main house of the Madrona was a lovely light blue shade with lots of windows trimmed in white and a large covered porch area in front through the gate. The property was bordered by trees that looked as though they had been there forever.

I made my way into the living room with comfy-looking chairs, a fireplace, a table with games stacked underneath, and the wall opposite taken up by a large built-in bookcase holding more games and hundreds of books. I made my way over toward the books and ran my hands along the spines as I read the titles. The room filled with scents of fall: pumpkin, cinnamon, and utter deliciousness.

I walked through the rest of the living room into a good-size dining room and called out to Marie before I hit the door leading to the kitchen.

“Hey there, Ros! I was hoping you’d stop by one of these days,” Marie responded cheerfully as I walked into the room.

My jaw dropped a bit that she remembered me before I caught myself. She was standing at the huge island kneading dough, the sleeves of her blouse pushed up past her elbows, her hands covered in flour.

Marie looked up, smiled, and blew a strand of her straight, ash-blonde hair out of her face. There was something about this woman that made me feel at ease. Maybe it was the warmth of her smile or the kindness she seemed to radiate.

“I hope this is a good time.” I sat down at one of the stools lined up in front of the island.

“It’s a great time. How have you been? How are you liking things here on Orcas Island?”

“I’m liking it. I actually haven’t gotten out much. I was starting to feel a bit stir-crazy and figured I’d stop by.”

Marie nodded her head at that, looked up at me and laughed. It was a musical sound. It lightened up her entire face and made her look younger than her sixty years. “Well, we need to change that then, don’t we?”

It was more a statement than an actual question, and she went on to tell me about the island, the places I didn’t want to miss out on and all the hidden gems only a local knew. I had a feeling this was something incredibly important to her and if given a chance, she likely could have spent the rest of the day telling me the history of the island.

It finally hit me why I liked this woman so much. The warmth toward strangers, the baking, the joy and passion evident in every word that passed her lips. She reminded me of what I imagined my mother would have been like had she lived long enough.

Ideas began to flow through my head about how to turn Marie into a friend. Then I started to feel self-conscious about the schemes I was hatching up. The forgotten feelings I’d had in high school started to emerge. I’d been the new kid at school trying to adjust to not knowing anyone, trying to find my way in an unfamiliar place, not having my very best friend there with me to help ease the transition. The new, awkward girl attempting to deal with the fact that my mom was gone and I would never see her again. I would never hear her voice or feel her arms wrapped around me.

Like Marie, my mom had had a musical laugh. She had also been an amazing baker and more times than not had something delicious and warm waiting for me when I got home from school each day. I hadn’t realized until I was older what a treat it was, how rare and special.

I’d become adept at pushing the memories of my mother down to the darkest recesses of my mind. I could go most days without even a thought of her entering my consciousness. Sometimes all it took was something small like a scent or an image to spark a memory. It wasn’t ever just one or two. It would be several, dozens sometimes, flooding me until I was drowning in them.

The way she combed my hair gently every night, careful to not pull on it when one of the curls became knotted. The way she would then braid it into pigtails, not so tight that it would hurt my head, and not so loose that it would be a mess by morning.

The way we would read our favorite books together, her reading to me when I was younger, then us taking turns reading to each other as I got older, snuggled in my bed, each reading a chapter a night.

The way she would always ask with genuine care and interest how my day was and what had transpired when I got home from school. She always listened intently, first at stories of bullies and teachers, and, as I grew older and entered my pre-teen and early teen years, stories about which boy I had a crush on and who was dating whom, always without judgment.

Most teenagers don’t realize how good they have it, but I always knew and appreciated her. She was my closest friend. Losing her was something I knew I would never recover from, and the best I could do was bury the hurt, anger, sadness, and memories so deep they almost never were able to surface and come out on their own.

But here I was, standing in a stranger’s kitchen, starting to drown in the memories prompted by the sweet woman in my midst who reminded me so much of what I’d lost. I asked for a restroom and excused myself. If I stayed any longer, the waves would overtake me and I would surely drown in front of a stranger.

I stared at myself in the mirror and tried to find my mom in my face, in the few features we shared. It got harder and harder with each year that passed. I only pulled out her photos a handful of times a year—it was all I could bear. They’d become worn with age and from my touching them for so many years. They were fading the way my memory of her face was beginning to in my mind.

I could always see the resemblance between my father and me. It was there in my nose, the darker tone of my skin, in my high cheekbones, the hazel eyes we shared. If I looked hard enough, if I focused hard enough through the hurt, I could see glimpses of my mother: the sprinkle of freckles across my cheeks, the tilt of my eyes, our same stubborn chin.

Every now and then I would meet or see someone who knew my mother while she was alive. They would say such nice things about her and tell me how much I looked like her. I know they were trying to be polite.

I always wanted to ask my dad about it, see if he saw as much of her in me as others seemed to, things I just couldn’t see myself. I wondered if perhaps that was part of why there was so much distance between us, but I knew I never would mention any of it.

Even after all these years, and a new marriage under his belt, my mother was still a sore subject for him. He was likely the only person who could give me an honest, truthful answer about it, but she was not something either of us ever found ourselves able to talk about. We always tiptoed around the subject.

I shook my head and realized I had gotten lost in my thoughts and I had no idea how much time had passed or how long I had been in here. I turned on the cold water and splashed my face with it, and looked at myself again. Nothing was going to hide the red around my eyes, a sure giveaway I had been crying. A knock rapped on the door.

“Ros, are you okay?” Marie called out.

“I’ll be out in a second.”

Thank God my voice somehow sounded steady and even. I opened the door to Marie leaning against the opposite wall. My mouth opened to give some kind of explanation for why I’d been in there so long, but she took one long, searching look at my face and pulled me into her tight embrace before I could even utter a single word.

“Shhhh, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered in my ear as I returned the hug.

Just like my mom would have, she somehow knew exactly what I needed in that moment and gave it to me without question or explanations. As I fell into the warmth and comfort of her arms, the arms of what was basically a stranger, I couldn’t help but feel grateful this woman had come into my life.