The Alaskan snow fell in merciless sheets, transforming the world into a white blur. At a deserted bus stop on the outskirts of Anchorage, stood 17-year-old Olivia Morgan, her thin jacket pulled tight around her body, and more importantly, around the tiny bundle in her arms, her two-month-old daughter Lily. The temperature had dropped well below freezing, the last bus of the night hadn’t arrived, and Olivia had nowhere to go.
Shhh, Lily please, I know you’re cold, I’m trying baby, I’m trying. Her voice broke as tears froze on her cheeks. Three hours earlier, she had been standing on her parents’ porch watching her father throw her duffel bag into the snow.
No daughter of ours will bring such shame to this family. Her father’s voice had been cold, colder than the winter air around them. Behind him, her mother stood with tears streaming down her face, but making no move to defend her daughter or granddaughter.
Olivia had hidden her pregnancy for months. The family’s pristine reputation in their conservative church community had meant everything to them, apparently more than their only daughter and her newborn baby. When finally discovered, her parents gave her an ultimatum, give the baby up for adoption or leave.
She chose her daughter, but now, as the snow piled higher and the night grew darker, that choice felt impossibly heavy. Her best friend Mackenzie couldn’t take her in. Lily’s father, a college freshman who had blocked Olivia’s number the moment she told him about the pregnancy, was certainly not an option.
Olivia began walking, her inadequate sneakers sinking into the snow. Each step felt like a prayer, a desperate plea that someone, anyone, might help them before the Alaskan winter claimed two more lives. Lily’s cries had quieted to whimpers, which somehow frightened Olivia more than her screaming, stay awake baby, please stay awake.
The headlights appeared like distant stars, growing larger as a vehicle approached. A battered blue pickup truck slowed beside her, its engine rumbling. The driver’s window rolled down with a mechanical whine, revealing an elderly woman with wild silver hair escaping from beneath a knitted hat and mismatched gloves on her weathered hands.
You two look like you’re in a proper pickle, aren’t you? The woman called out, her harsh Alaskan accent cutting through the howling wind. Olivia hesitated, clutching Lily closer to her chest. The truck looked ancient, its blue paint peeling in places, and the bed was piled high with what appeared to be strange items covered by a tarp.
The woman behind the wheel wasn’t exactly reassuring either. I don’t bite, girl, the woman called out. But that storm sure will, it’s dropping ten degrees an hour out here.
As if to emphasize the point, Lily let out another cry, this one weaker than before. I’m Maeve Callahan, the woman said, her voice softening slightly at the sound of the baby. That little one won’t last another hour in this weather.
Maeve was right, and Olivia knew it. With trembling legs, she trudged through the snow to the passenger side of the truck. When she opened the door, she was hit with a wave of warmth from the heater and the strange sight of the truck’s interior.
The dashboard was covered with small figurines, what looked like hand-carved animals, some antique dolls with unsettling glass eyes, and several crystals hanging from strings. The back seat was stacked with books, papers, and what appeared to be, Olivia blinked in disbelief, a taxidermied owl perched atop a cardboard box. Well, Maeve raised an eyebrow.
In or out, I can’t heat all of Alaska. Olivia climbed in, awkwardly settling with Lily in her arms. The truck smelled of pine, tobacco, and something earthy she couldn’t identify.
Where are you headed, Maeve asked, putting the truck in gear. I, Olivia’s voice caught, I don’t know. Maeve studied her for a long moment, her eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.
They were striking eyes, pale blue, almost silver, like the winter sky. No home then? Olivia shook her head, tears threatening again. Not anymore.
Maeve nodded once, as if confirming something to herself, then turned her attention back to the road. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the snow. I’m twenty miles outside town, got a cabin, it’s nothing but it’s warm, you two can wait out the storm there.
Olivia should have been frightened. Every warning she’d ever received about strangers screamed in her head. But when Lily’s tiny fingers wrapped around her thumb, seeking warmth, what choice did she really have? Thank you, she whispered.
Maeve made a dismissive sound. Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t seen where I live. The drive was mostly silent, save for Maeve occasionally muttering to herself, or to the truck, when it made concerning noises.
The headlights cut through heavy snowfall, illuminating a world transformed into ghostly white shapes. They turned off the main road onto what was barely a path, winding through dense forest. You’re not, you’re not going to hurt us, are you? Olivia finally asked, voicing her fear.
Maeve barked out a laugh. Girl, if I wanted to hurt you, I’d have left you at that bus stop. Nature would have done the job for me.
She glanced at Lily. Besides, I don’t hurt children, never have, never will. There was something in the way she said it, a heaviness, a history, that made Olivia believe her.
The cabin appeared suddenly between the trees, its windows glowing with warm light. From the outside it looked tiny, a simple A-frame structure with a steep roof to shed the snow, smoke curled from a stone chimney. Home sweet home, Maeve announced, parking the truck.
Getting from the truck to the cabin was an adventure in itself, with the snow nearly knee-deep. Maeve forged ahead, creating a path for Olivia to follow with Lily. By the time they reached the porch, Olivia was exhausted and freezing again.
Maeve pushed open the door, and Olivia stepped into a world unlike anything she’d ever seen. The cabin’s interior was surprisingly spacious, much larger than it appeared from outside. But what made Olivia pause wasn’t the size, but the contents.
Every surface, every wall space seemed filled with… things. Collections of rocks and shells, bookshelves overflowing with volumes in multiple languages, dried plants hanging from ceiling beams, strange artwork that looked both primitive and somehow scientific, a large work table covered with papers, magnifying glasses, and what appeared to be bone fragments. It was chaotic yet somehow organized, as if the entire space were the physical manifestation of a brilliant but scattered mind.
Close your mouth girl, you’ll catch flies, Maeve said, hanging her parka on a hook by the door. The central space was dominated by a large wood stove, radiating blessed heat. Maeve immediately went to work, stoking the fire higher.
Sit, she instructed, pointing to a worn but comfortable looking armchair near the stove. Olivia sank into it gratefully, unwrapping Lily from her outer blanket. The baby’s cheeks were red from the cold, her nose running.
Without being asked, Maeve disappeared into what must have been a kitchen area, returning minutes later with a bottle of warm formula. How did you, Olivia began staring at the bottle. Figured that’s what she’d need, Maeve said with a shrug.
Been a while, but some things you don’t forget. As Olivia fed Lily, her maternal instincts warring with her exhaustion, Maeve disappeared again. This time when she returned, she was carrying what looked like a drawer, a actual wooden drawer, that she had lined with soft blankets.
Makeshift crib, she explained, setting it down near the stove. Babies sleep better with solid sides around them, feel secure. Olivia stared at her.
How do you know so much about babies? Maeve’s expression shuddered slightly. I’ve known many beginnings and endings, child. Before Olivia could ask what that meant, Maeve was moving again, gathering supplies.
She returned with a towel, some clothes that looked well worn but clean, and a bar of soap. Bathrooms through there, she said, nodding to a door. Water’s hot if you’re quick.
Generators working overtime in this storm. Only then did Olivia realize how disheveled she must look and smell. She hadn’t showered properly since leaving home that morning.
I can watch the Maeve offered, seeing her hesitation. Been a while, but I haven’t forgotten how to hold a baby. Trusting this strange woman with Lily seemed inadvisable, and yet, there was something about Maeve that inspired confidence.
A competence in her movements, a directness in her gaze that spoke of someone who had seen much of life and knew how to handle its challenges. Her name is Lily, Olivia said, carefully transferring the now calm baby to Maeve’s arms. Lily, Maeve repeated softly, settling into the chair Olivia had vacated.
Hello there, little Lily flower. The shower was glorious, the hot water washing away not just the physical grime, but some of the emotional weight of the day. When Olivia emerged, dressed in the borrowed clothes, which were too large but wonderfully soft, she found Maeve singing softly to Lily, an old folk song about mountains and rivers that Olivia had never heard before.
There’s food on the table, Maeve said without looking up. Nothing fancy, soup and bread. Olivia hadn’t realized how hungry she was until that moment.
The soup, some kind of hearty vegetable and barley concoction, tasted better than anything she could remember eating. As she ate, she surveyed the cabin more carefully. One wall was entirely covered with photographs, mostly of Maeve in various remote locations, always alone, often with scientific equipment.
She looked younger in the photos but just as intense, just as present. Another thing caught Olivia’s attention. A small door, different from the bathroom or what appeared to be Maeve’s bedroom.
It was painted blue and had a hand-lettered sign. Eleanor’s room. Keep out.
Who’s Eleanor? Olivia asked before she could stop herself. Maeve’s hand stilled momentarily as she was tucking the blanket around Lily in her makeshift drawer crib. No one you need to concern yourself with, she answered, her voice suddenly flat.
You’ll sleep there tonight, she added, pointing to a daybed in the corner. I’m through that door. I sleep light, so call if you need anything.
The abrupt change in subject was clear. Eleanor was not a topic for discussion. As Maeve prepared for bed, moving around the cabin with the efficiency of long established routines, she paused by Olivia’s makeshift bed.
Just until the storm passes, she said, though something in her eyes, a knowing look, suggested she understood it would be longer. The forecast says three days of this weather, maybe more. Thank you, Olivia said again, genuinely grateful despite the strangeness of it all.
I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t stopped. Maeve’s expression softened slightly. Get some sleep, girl.
Tomorrow’s another day. Later, as Olivia lay in the unfamiliar bed, listening to Lily’s soft breathing and the howling wind outside, she wondered what twist of fate had brought them to this place. The day had begun with her world falling apart, yet here they were, safe, warm, and somehow found by perhaps the only person strange enough to take in a teenage mother and baby during a blizzard without question.
Just before sleep claimed her, Olivia’s gaze drifted once more to that blue door with its warning sign. Who was Eleanor, and what had happened to make Maeve Callahan, a woman who clearly knew how to care for babies, live alone in the Alaskan wilderness surrounded by scientific specimens and memories? Days turned into a week as the storm raged on, trapping them in the cabin. What had seemed like a temporary refuge became, of necessity, something more.
Olivia learned that survival with Maeve Callahan came with structure and expectations. I’m not running a hotel, Maeve announced on the second morning, handing Olivia a broom. Everyone works here.
Despite her gruff manner, Maeve proved to be an unexpectedly patient teacher. She showed Olivia how to maintain the wood stove, explaining the different types of wood and how they burned. Pine burns hot and fast, good for getting things going.
Birch lasts longer, gives a steady heat. You always want to mix, she explained, demonstrating how to arrange the logs. When not tending to Lily, Olivia helped with chores around the cabin.
She learned that the peculiar collections had purpose, the rocks were geological specimens, the dried plants were both medicinal and for research, and the bones belonged to various arctic animals Maeve had been studying for years. You’re a scientist? Olivia asked on the third day, as they preserved vegetables from Maeve’s root cellar, was, am. Depends who you ask, Maeve replied, expertly slicing carrots.
Professor of arctic biology at the university in Fairbanks for 20 years, retired early to do my own research. What kind of research? Climate effects on arctic ecosystems, changes in plant cycles, animal migrations. Maeve gestured to her workbench, been documenting it for three decades now.
Changes that took centuries are happening in decades. Nobody wanted to hear it back then. And now? Now they’re listening, but it’s almost too late.
She handed Olivia another carrot, thinner slices, they’ll dry better. On the fourth day, the satellite phone rang, a startling sound in the otherwise quiet cabin. Maeve answered with terse responses, mostly yes and no, and finally, we’re fine, Thomas, don’t risk the trip yet.
Thomas brings supplies sometimes, she explained after hanging up. Good man, one of the few people I can tolerate for more than an hour. Olivia tried calling her friend Mackenzie on Maeve’s satellite phone, but the connection was spotty.
She managed to learn that her parents had told everyone she was away at a special school, their euphemism for erasing her from their lives. On the fifth night, Lily developed a slight fever. Olivia panicked, but Maeve remained calm.
Babies get fevers, it’s how their bodies fight, she said, examining Lily with surprisingly gentle hands, not dangerously high, probably just adjusting to the new environment. She prepared a lukewarm bath for Lily, adding something that smelled like mint to the water. Helps open the airways, she explained.
By morning, Lily’s fever had broken. When Olivia expressed her amazement, Maeve simply shrugged. Natural remedies work when you know what you’re doing.
Modern medicine has its place, but people survived for thousands of years before antibiotics. Over time, Olivia began to notice Maeve’s more peculiar habits. She talked to her plants as she watered them, addressing each by scientific name and sometimes having entire conversations with them.
She named the animals that occasionally appeared outside their windows, a particular fox she called Archimedes, and a raven she greeted as Einstein. Sometimes she spoke in what seemed like riddles. When Olivia mentioned feeling trapped by her circumstances, Maeve responded, freedom isn’t the absence of walls, it’s having the strength to climb them.
Then she went back to writing in one of her many journals if she hadn’t said anything profound. At night, Olivia sometimes heard Maeve moving around the cabin, talking softly to herself or perhaps to someone only she could see. Once, she found her sitting by the window at 3am, watching the aurora borealis painting the sky in greens and purples.
The light spoke to the ancient ones, Maeve said without turning around, told them stories of the cosmos. We’ve forgotten how to listen. Despite these eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, Olivia found herself growing comfortable in Maeve’s presence.
The woman was odd, certainly, but also brilliant, capable, and in her own prickly way, kind. Lily seemed to thrive under their combined care, away from the stress of hiding her existence and the tension of her parents’ home. Olivia found herself more relaxed as a mother.
Lily gained weight, became more alert, and even began what Maeve identified as social smiling, not gas. Maeve insisted when Olivia suggested that might be the cause of Lily’s grin, she’s responding to you, recognizing her person. On the tenth day, the storm finally broke, sunshine spilled through the windows, illuminating dust motes and casting the cabin in a warm glow.
The snow outside sparkled like diamonds. Thomas will make it through tomorrow, Maeve announced after checking something on a weather radio. He’ll bring supplies and news.
The unspoken question hung in the air. What would Olivia do now? The storm was over, the immediate danger had passed, but she still had nowhere to go. That evening, as Lily slept in her drawer crib, which Maeve had improved with small wooden rails, Olivia found the courage to ask about the journals she’d noticed.
They filled an entire bookshelf, leather-bound volumes with dates spanning decades. Are those your research notes? Maeve, who was knitting something with multiple colors of yarn, nodded. Partly.
Observations. Thoughts. Data.
I’ve documented every weather pattern, plant growth cycle, and animal sighting on this land since 1983. Could I, would it be okay if I looked at one? Maeve’s knitting needles stilled. Then, with a slight nod, she said, the green ones are purely scientific, the brown ones are personal.
Stick to the green. The journal Olivia selected was filled with Maeve’s precise handwriting, detailed drawings of plants, charts tracking temperatures and precipitation, and observations so meticulous they bordered on poetry. This is amazing, Olivia said honestly.
You should publish this, Maeve snorted. I did, for years. Academic journals.
Research papers. Then I stopped. Why? Got tired of committees and peer reviews and university politics.
Science shouldn’t be about whose name is on the paper or who gets funding. It should be about truth. She resumed her knitting, the needles clicking rhythmically.
Out here, I answer to no one. Research is pure. Olivia flipped through more pages, pausing at a detailed drawing of a flower.
This is beautiful. I didn’t know scientists could draw like this. In the old days, all scientists were artists, too.
Da Vinci. Audubon. Darwin.
They observed and they created. Modern specialization has made us forget that science and art are just different ways of seeing the same world. As Olivia returned the journal to its shelf, her gaze drifted once more to the blue door.
In ten days, she had explored every part of the cabin except what lined it. The keep-out sign had kept her away, but her curiosity grew daily. Maeve, she began carefully.
I know it’s none of my business but that room, Eleanor’s room, is Eleanor your? The temperature in the cabin seemed to drop ten degrees. Maeve’s hands froze mid-stitch, her face becoming a carved mask. You’re right, she said, her voice dangerously quiet.
It’s none of your business. She stood abruptly, setting aside her knitting. I’m turning in early.
Make sure the fire’s banked before you sleep. The door to Maeve’s bedroom closed with finality, leaving Olivia alone with her regrets in the main room. The next morning, the atmosphere remained tense.
Maeve was civil but distant, focusing on preparations for Thomas’ arrival. Olivia tried to help, keeping Lily content and staying out of Maeve’s way. Mid-morning, they heard the sound of an engine.
Through the window, Olivia saw a snow machine pulling a small sled loaded with supplies, driven by a man in heavy winter gear. Thomas, it turned out, was not what Olivia had expected. He was native Alaskan, perhaps in his fifties, with laugh lines around his eyes and a quiet, thoughtful manner that seemed to balance Maeve’s intensity.
So you’re the guests Maeve mentioned, he said, his deep voice warm as he removed his gloves to greet them. Thomas Cascais. I teach at the high school in town when I’m not making deliveries to hermits in the woods.
Who are you calling a hermit? Maeve grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. Did you bring the coffee? Two pounds. Dark roast.
And something else you’ll appreciate. He reached into his pack and pulled out a small stuffed polar bear toy. For the little one, my wife insisted, Lily, secured in a makeshift carrier Maeve had fashioned, blinked at the toy with fascination.
Your wife has good taste, Olivia said, genuinely touched. Thank you. As they unloaded supplies, Thomas and Maeve fell into what was clearly a familiar routine.
They moved around each other with the ease of long acquaintance, communicating in half sentences and knowing glances. Later, over cups of steaming coffee, which Maeve declared almost adequate, Thomas brought news from town. The storm had been the worst in years, causing power outages and property damage.
Schools had been closed for a week. The community center is still serving as a shelter for those who lost power, he mentioned, watching Olivia carefully. They have resources for people who need temporary assistance.
The implication was clear. There were options for Olivia and Lily if they wanted to leave. Before Olivia could respond, Maeve cut in.
The girl and her baby can stay here until she figures out her next move. No need for shelters and social workers poking into her business. Thomas raised an eyebrow.
That’s generous of you, Maeve. It’s practical, she countered. I’ve got the space.
She helps with chores. The baby’s no trouble. Olivia felt a surge of relief, followed quickly by uncertainty.
Maeve was offering continued shelter, but was it what was best for Lily? Living in this remote cabin with an eccentric older woman might not be the most stable environment for a baby. And yet, in the past ten days, Lily had thrived. Olivia had learned more about practical care from Maeve than from all the parenting books she’d secretly read.
And despite Maeve’s gruff exterior, there was genuine kindness beneath. If you’re sure it’s not an imposition, Olivia said carefully, we’d be grateful to stay a little longer, just until I can make a proper plan. Maeve nodded once, as if the matter were settled.
Thomas watched this exchange with thoughtful eyes. Before leaving, he took Olivia aside while Maeve was organizing the supplies. Maeve doesn’t let people in easily, he said quietly.
She must see something in you and your daughter. She’s been very kind, despite her tough exterior. Thomas smiled slightly.
She’s had her share of hardships, made her prickly but also compassionate in her own way. He glanced toward the mysterious blue door, then back at Olivia. Be patient with her.
There are old wounds there. After Thomas departed, promising to return in two weeks, the cabin settled back into its rhythm, but with subtle differences. Maeve seemed more deliberate in her teaching, showing Olivia not just how to maintain their immediate needs but skills for longer-term survival.
Knowledge is the only thing they can’t take from you, she said as she demonstrated how to identify edible plants in a field guide. Money, shelter, relationships, all can be lost. But what’s in your head stays there.
As December deepened and Christmas approached, Olivia realized something unexpected. She had begun to see the cabin as home. She missed certain comforts of her previous life, but not the constant tension, the feeling of being a disappointment, of living a lie to protect her parents’ reputation.
Here with Maeve, there was no pretense. The older woman had no interest in appearances or social standing. She valued competence, honesty, and direct communication.
If Olivia did something wrong, Maeve told her immediately and showed her how to correct it. If she did something well, Maeve acknowledged it with a nod or brief word of approval. It wasn’t conventional.
It certainly wasn’t what Olivia had imagined for herself and Lily. But on nights when the aurora danced across the sky and the cabin was warm against the cold, when Lily slept peacefully in her improved crib and Maeve shared stories of her research expeditions across the Arctic, Olivia felt something she had rarely experienced before. She felt at peace, yet always in the background of this growing contentment was the question of Eleanor’s room.
Who had she been? What had happened? And why did Maeve, who clearly knew so much about caring for babies, live alone in the wilderness, with only a blue door and a warning sign to mark what seemed a significant loss? Winter deepened, transforming the landscape into a crystalline world of white and blue. Inside the cabin, life fell into comfortable patterns. Olivia’s 18th birthday passed with little fanfare, just a small cake Maeve somehow produced and a handmade card from Lily, featuring the baby’s inked footprint.
Thomas visited regularly, bringing supplies and news. Sometimes he stayed for dinner, sharing stories about the high school where he taught history and traditional knowledge. Through him, Olivia began to learn about the local community beyond what she had known from her sheltered upbringing.
The school has a good program for young parents, he mentioned one evening. Several students continue their education while raising children. Olivia’s heart quickened at the thought.
She had been a good student before Lily, with dreams of college that had seemed to vanish when the pregnancy test was positive. How would that even work, she wondered aloud. I can’t exactly show up at a new school with a baby and no guardian.
Thomas and Maeve exchanged a look that Olivia couldn’t quite interpret. There are ways, Thomas said carefully. If you were interested, the conversation shifted, but the seed had been planted in Olivia’s mind.
Maybe, just maybe, her education wasn’t over. January brought the coldest temperatures yet. The generator strained against the demands, and Maeve monitored it constantly, making adjustments and minor repairs.
Old beast, she muttered affectionately to the machine. Just a few more weeks, you can do it. One particularly brutal night, with temperatures dipping below minus 30, the inevitable happened.
The generators sputtered, coughed, and died with a final whine. Damn, Maeve said with surprising calm. Knew this was coming.
The cabin grew steadily colder as the heating system failed. The wood stove provided heat for the main room, but the bedrooms quickly became uninhabitable. We’ll all sleep near the stove tonight, Maeve decided, dragging mattresses into the main area.
Body heat and proximity to fire will keep us warm enough until morning. I can fix it then. As they prepared for a cold night, Maeve instructed Olivia to find extra blankets, check the trunk by my bed, and the storage cabinet in the bathroom.
With Lily securely bundled in a nest of blankets near the stove, Olivia searched for more warm coverings. The trunk contained several quilts, which she carried to the main room. The bathroom cabinet yielded towels, but no blankets.
Running out of options and feeling the biting cold, Olivia remembered seeing a chest in Maeve’s room that she hadn’t checked. Inside were wool blankets, and something else. A leather-bound book, different from Maeve’s journals.
When she moved it aside to reach the blankets beneath, the book fell open, revealing a hollow center. And inside that center, a key. A small brass key with a blue ribbon tied to it.
Olivia stared at it, her heart pounding. She knew without having to be told what door this key would open. She should have just taken the blankets and closed the chest.
She should have respected Maeve’s privacy, her clear boundaries. But the mystery of Eleanor’s room had grown in her mind over these months. And now, with the key literally in her hands, curiosity overwhelmed caution.
Taking the key and the blankets, she returned to the main room. Maeve was busy with the wood stove. Her back turned as she arranged logs to maximize heat through the night.
Found these in your bedroom chest, Olivia said, setting down the blankets. I’ll check if there are more in the storage closet. The storage closet was near Eleanor’s room, a convenient excuse.
Heart racing, Olivia moved quickly down the hallway with a flashlight. The blue door seemed to glow slightly in the beam of light. The keep out sign stared back accusingly.
She hesitated, hand trembling as she raised the key to the lock. This was wrong. This was a violation of trust.
And yet, the key turned smoothly, as if the lock had been regularly maintained, despite the prohibition against entry. The door swung open with a soft creak. Olivia’s flashlight beam swept across the small room, and her breath caught in her throat.
It was a nursery, a perfectly preserved nursery from another time. The walls were painted a soft yellow, decorated with a hand-painted mural of forest animals. A wooden crib stood in the center, covered with a patchwork quilt and surrounded by stuffed animals.
A rocking chair sat in the corner, a handmade afghan draped across its back. Shelves lined one wall, filled with children’s books from the 1980s. A changing table held neatly stacked, yellowing diapers and baby clothes.
It was as if time had stopped in this room decades ago, holding the space in perfect suspension. On a small dresser, silver-framed photographs caught the flashlight’s beam. Olivia moved closer, her heart pounding.
The largest showed a much younger Maeve, perhaps in her thirties, holding a newborn baby. Despite her exhausted appearance, her face radiated a joy that Olivia had never seen on the older woman’s features. She looked, transformed by love.
Eleanor, Olivia whispered, finally understanding. Yes, Eleanor, Olivia whirled around, nearly dropping the flashlight. Maeve stood in the doorway, her face unreadable in the dim light.
Olivia braced herself for anger, for outrage at this invasion of privacy. Instead, what crossed Maeve’s features was something more devastating, a profound, bone-deep sorrow. I’m so sorry, Olivia began, but Maeve raised a hand to silence her.
It’s done now, she said quietly. She stepped into the room, moving with the care of someone entering sacred space. Her fingers trailed over the crib rail, straightened a stuffed bear, adjusted the afghan on the rocking chair, automatic gestures that spoke of countless previous visits.
You had a daughter, Olivia said softly. Maeve nodded, picking up the silver-framed photograph. Eleanor Grace Callahan.
Born the 14th of July, 1986. Three hours of labor, seven pounds exactly. Her voice took on a distant quality.
She had my eyes but her father’s smile, not that he ever saw it. I’m sorry, Olivia said again, feeling the inadequacy of the words. I shouldn’t have come in here.
No, you shouldn’t have. Maeve sighed, settling into the rocking chair. The weight of memories seemed to press her deeper into the seat.
But perhaps it’s time. Secrets have a way of surfacing, like air bubbles under ice. In the main room, Lily made a small sound.
Olivia glanced back, torn between her responsibility to her daughter and her need to understand Maeve’s story. Go, Maeve said. Check on Lily.
Make sure she’s warm enough. I’ll be there shortly. When Olivia returned to the main room, she found Lily still sleeping peacefully, unaffected by the adult dramas unfolding around her.
She adjusted the blankets and added another log to the wood stove, then waited. Maeve emerged from Eleanor’s room several minutes later, carrying the silver-framed photograph and looking older than Olivia had ever seen her. She sat heavily on the mattress near the stove.
The picture cradled in her weathered hands. I was 34. She began without preamble.
A promising academic career. Tenure track at the university. I specialized in Arctic ecosystems.
Spent summers doing field research. Winters teaching and publishing. Her voice was flat, as if reciting facts from one of her journals.
I wasn’t married. Didn’t particularly want to be. But I did want a child.
She looked up, meeting Olivia’s eyes. This was the 1980s. Single motherhood by choice wasn’t widely accepted, especially in academic circles.
Women were still fighting to be taken seriously as scientists. Having a baby without a husband was career suicide. So what did you do? Olivia asked softly.
