Silent Hearth Part 2

Part 2: April to June

Chapter 5

Haden's biggest project collapsed spectacularly on an otherwise ordinary April morning. The client, a tech entrepreneur from Toronto with more money than sense, decided that perhaps a glass-bottomed sauna overlooking Georgian Bay wasn't practical after all—not after receiving the engineering report on the cliff's stability.

"It's not that we don't love the design," the man explained over the phone, his voice carrying the particular tone of someone about to deliver bad news while pretending it isn't really bad news. "It's just that we're thinking of going in a different direction. Less... ambitious."

Less ambitious. The words stung more than they should have. Haden ended the call professionally, assuring the client he understood completely, though what he understood was that three months of work and a considerable expected commission had just evaporated.

He sat at his desk, staring at the detailed renderings on his computer screen—the cantilevered structure extending over the cliff edge, the glass floor revealing the rocky shore thirty meters below, the innovative heating system that would have made the space usable year-round despite the harsh Canadian winters. It was beautiful. It was daring. It was exactly what the client had asked for. And now it was nothing but digital files and a stack of drawings that would never become reality.

The past three months had been a period of cautious rebuilding in his personal life. Since that January night when Kaja had texted "I miss you" and he had made the decision to truly come home, they had been working on their marriage with the same careful attention he usually reserved for his architectural projects. There had been difficult conversations, moments of reconnection, and the slow, sometimes awkward process of learning to be truly present with each other again.

And now this professional setback, landing like a boulder in the still-fragile ecosystem of his reconstructed life.

His office door opened, and Lars appeared with two cups of coffee. "I heard the call," he said, placing one cup on Haden's desk. "Tough break."

Haden nodded, not trusting himself to speak immediately.

"It was a brilliant design," Lars continued, settling into the chair across from the desk. "One of your best."

"Apparently brilliance isn't what they want anymore," Haden replied, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "They want 'less ambitious.'"

"Their loss. We'll find another client who appreciates innovation."

"Will we? The economy's tightening. Luxury projects are the first to go when people get nervous about the future."

Lars sipped his coffee, studying Haden over the rim of the cup. "This isn't just about the Wilkins project, is it?"

Haden sighed, leaning back in his chair. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're taking this harder than you would have six months ago. Something else is going on."

The observation was accurate, as Lars's insights often were. In the past, Haden would have simply moved on to the next project, compartmentalizing the disappointment and channeling his energy into new work. But now, with the fragile new connections in his personal life, with the effort he had been making to be more present and emotionally available, the professional failure felt more threatening, more destabilizing.

"Things at home have been... better," he said finally. "Kaja and I have been working on our issues. I've been trying to be more present, more engaged. This project was going to give us some financial breathing room, maybe allow for a family trip this summer. Something to help rebuild..."

"And now that plan is in jeopardy," Lars finished for him.

"Exactly."

Lars was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder, placing it on the desk between them.

"What's this?" Haden asked.

"Something I've been meaning to discuss with you. Jensen's firm has been making overtures about a potential merger."

"Jensen? From Toronto?"

"The same. They've got the urban connections we need, and we've got the design reputation they want. It could be a good fit."

Haden opened the folder, scanning the preliminary proposal. Jensen & Associates was a well-established firm specializing in commercial and institutional projects in Toronto and other major Canadian cities. They had the corporate clients and urban presence that Snjougla & Jensen lacked, while Haden's firm had the design credentials and sustainability focus that Jensen wanted to acquire.

"A merger," Haden said, the word feeling foreign in his mouth. "That would change everything."

"It would change some things," Lars corrected. "But it could secure our future in uncertain economic times. And it would mean projects like the Wilkins sauna wouldn't make or break us financially."

As his business partner continued outlining the potential benefits of the merger, Haden found his mind drifting to the implications beyond the business. A merger would mean more travel to Toronto, more corporate clients with their committees and compromises, less of the creative freedom he had always valued. But it would also mean more stability, a broader portfolio, perhaps even the opportunity to work on larger, more impactful projects.

"I need to think about this," he said when Lars finished his pitch.

"Of course. Take your time. But not too much time—Jensen wants an answer by the end of the month."

After Lars left, Haden remained at his desk, the merger proposal open before him, the failed sauna project still visible on his computer screen. Two paths diverging, each with its own promises and pitfalls. The architect in him wanted to analyze, to calculate load-bearing capacities and stress points, to determine which structure would stand stronger against the inevitable storms of life and business.

But the man in him—the husband, the father, the human being trying to rebuild connections that had nearly been lost—felt something less quantifiable: fear. Fear that whatever choice he made would somehow undermine the fragile new foundation he and Kaja had been establishing. Fear that he would retreat into work again, using professional challenges as an excuse to avoid emotional ones. Fear that he would fail at the most important project of his life: his family.

His phone buzzed with a text from Kaja:

Lunch today? I'm in town for a meeting with the gallery and thought we might meet at the café.

Such a simple invitation, yet it represented so much progress from where they had been just months ago. Lunch together, spontaneous and casual, was something they hadn't done in years.

Sounds great. Noon? he replied.

Haden glanced at his watch. Two hours until lunch. Enough time to begin processing the Wilkins disappointment and to start considering the Jensen proposal more seriously. He turned to his computer, closing the sauna renderings with a decisive click. That project was over. Time to look forward, not back.

At noon, he walked the short distance from his office to the café on Thornbury's main street. April had brought the first real signs of spring—crocuses pushing through the last patches of snow, buds forming on the trees, the bay beginning its annual thaw along the shoreline. The town was coming back to life after the long winter, much like his marriage.

Kaja was already at a table by the window when he arrived, sunlight catching in her silver-streaked dark hair. At forty-five, she was more beautiful to him than she had been at twenty-five—her face now carrying the character that comes with lived experience, her movements more deliberate and graceful. She looked up as he approached, her smile warming him more effectively than the spring sunshine.

"Hi," she said as he sat across from her. "How's your day going?"

The question was ordinary, but the genuine interest behind it was not. This was part of their new pattern—asking real questions, giving real answers, being present in the small moments that ultimately constructed a life together.

"Challenging," he admitted. "The Wilkins project fell through this morning."

"The glass-bottomed sauna? Oh, Haden, I'm sorry. I know how much work you put into that design."

"Engineering report on the cliff stability made them nervous. They're going with something 'less ambitious' now."

"Their loss," Kaja said, unconsciously echoing Lars. "It was a beautiful design."

"Thank you." He reached across the table and took her hand, another small gesture that had once been automatic but had become meaningful again through its absence and return. "How was your gallery meeting?"

"Productive. They want to feature my new pieces in their summer exhibition. The ones inspired by the bay thawing."

"That's wonderful! When?"

"July opening. And they're talking about a possible solo show next year."

"Kaja, that's fantastic. We should celebrate."

She smiled, squeezing his hand. "Let's. Tonight? I could make that Arctic char you like."

"Perfect. I'll pick up wine on the way home."

They ordered lunch—soup and sandwiches, nothing fancy but exactly what they needed—and continued talking about their days, their plans, the girls' activities. It was ordinary conversation, the kind that couples everywhere had every day, but to Haden it felt precious, hard-won.

"There's something else," he said as they were finishing their meal. "Something I wanted to discuss with you."

"That sounds serious," Kaja observed, studying his face.

"It could be. Lars brought me a proposal this morning. Jensen's firm in Toronto is interested in a merger."

"A merger? That would be a big change."

"Yes. It would mean more corporate work, more travel to Toronto, a different business model than what we've built. But also more stability, bigger projects, potentially higher profits."

Kaja was quiet for a moment, considering. "How do you feel about it?"

The question was characteristic of their new approach to communication—direct, focused on feelings rather than just facts, inviting real engagement rather than superficial response.

"Conflicted," Haden admitted. "Part of me sees the practical benefits. Another part worries about losing creative control, about becoming just another corporate firm churning out safe designs."

"And there's something else," Kaja said, reading his expression with the insight of long acquaintance. "Something you're not saying."

Haden smiled ruefully. "When did you get so perceptive?"

"I've always been perceptive. You just haven't always been open to being perceived."

It was true, and they both knew it. His tendency to close himself off, to retreat behind walls of work and routine, had been a major factor in their marital difficulties. The fact that she could now gently call attention to this pattern without triggering defensiveness was a sign of their progress.

"I'm worried about what it might mean for us," he said finally. "For our family. For all the work we've been doing to reconnect. More time in Toronto, more pressure, more corporate politics... I'm afraid I might fall back into old patterns."

Kaja nodded, understanding immediately. "The workaholic architect who's physically present but emotionally absent."

"Exactly."

"I appreciate you sharing that concern," she said, her voice warm. "The fact that you're even thinking about how a business decision might affect our relationship is... well, it's different than before."

"I'm trying," Haden said simply.

"I know. We both are." She paused, considering. "For what it's worth, I think you should seriously consider the merger. Not despite our relationship but because of it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that financial stability and professional growth are important. They're part of what allows you to be present in other areas of your life. If you're constantly worried about where the next project is coming from, that creates its own kind of stress and distraction."

Her perspective surprised him, though perhaps it shouldn't have. Kaja had always been practical alongside her artistic nature, able to see multiple dimensions of a situation.

"You wouldn't resent the additional travel? The time away?"

"Not if we plan for it. Not if we make sure to stay connected even when you're physically elsewhere." She smiled. "We've learned a lot about connection and distance these past few months, haven't we?"

They had indeed. Through therapy (his individual sessions and their occasional couples sessions), through deliberate communication practices, through the simple but profound act of choosing to be present with each other day after day, they had begun rebuilding what had nearly been lost.

"Thank you," Haden said, squeezing her hand. "For understanding. For supporting me even when it might be easier not to."

"That's what partners do," Kaja replied simply. "Now, tell me more about this merger. What exactly would it mean for the firm?"

As he outlined the details of the proposal, Haden felt something shift inside him—not a resolution of all his concerns, but a easing of the fear that had gripped him earlier. Whatever decision he made about the merger, he wouldn't be making it alone. He had a partner, a true partner, to consider it with him, to help navigate the implications for their shared life.

After lunch, they walked together to the corner where they would separate—Kaja to run errands in town, Haden back to his office. Before parting, she reached up and straightened his collar, a small gesture of intimacy that had once been routine but had disappeared during their difficult period.

"Don't forget the wine," she reminded him. "And try not to work too late. The girls want to tell you about their day."

"I'll be home by six," he promised. "Arctic char and family dinner."

"It's a date," she smiled, rising on tiptoes to kiss him briefly before turning to go.

Haden watched her walk away, struck by how something as simple as a weekday lunch and a casual goodbye kiss could feel so significant, so precious. These were the moments that constructed a life together, the small connections that, when accumulated, created the foundation for everything else.

Back at his office, he found Lars waiting with news of a potential new client—a local winery looking to build a visitor center that would showcase sustainable design principles.

"Not as dramatic as a glass-bottomed sauna," Lars acknowledged, "but solid work with clients who appreciate good design."

"Set up a meeting," Haden said decisively. "And let's review the Jensen proposal in detail tomorrow. I want to understand exactly what we'd be gaining and what we'd be giving up."

The afternoon passed in a blur of client calls, design reviews, and preliminary sketches for the winery project. By five-thirty, Haden was deep in the creative flow that had always been his professional salvation—the state where problems became puzzles to solve rather than obstacles to overcome, where materials and space and light came together in his mind to form something both functional and beautiful.

His phone alarm chimed, reminding him of his promise to be home by six. In the past, he might have ignored it, might have told himself that just another hour would make all the difference to the project. Today, he saved his work, shut down his computer, and began gathering his things.

"Heading out?" Lars asked, appearing in the doorway with a surprised expression.

"Family dinner," Haden explained, pulling on his jacket. "Arctic char and wine."

"Ah, the new normal," Lars nodded approvingly. "I like it."

"Me too," Haden admitted. "Though it's still an adjustment sometimes."

"Worth it, though?"

"Absolutely."

As he drove home along the shore road, Georgian Bay visible through the trees with its mixture of ice and open water—the annual spring thaw in progress—Haden thought about transitions, about changes both chosen and imposed. The failed sauna project. The potential merger. The ongoing reconstruction of his marriage and family life.

All architecture, he reflected, was ultimately about creating spaces for life to unfold. The best designs accommodated both structure and flexibility, both permanence and change. Perhaps relationships were not so different—requiring solid foundations but also the ability to adapt, to grow, to transform in response to new conditions.

At home, he found Kaja in the kitchen preparing dinner, Reyna setting the table, and Hilde arranging what appeared to be small stones in a pattern on the sideboard.

"What's all this?" he asked, setting down the wine he had stopped to purchase.

"Runes for harmony and abundance," Hilde explained seriously. "Mr. Olsen says they help create the right energy for family gatherings."

"Does he now?" Haden smiled, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door. "And do they work?"

"They help us remember what's important," Hilde replied with the simple wisdom that often caught him off guard. "Like how you remembered to come home on time today."

"I promised I would," he said, ruffling her hair affectionately.

"And you kept your promise," she nodded approvingly. "That's important."

"Very important," Kaja agreed, looking up from her cooking with a warm smile. "Welcome home."

Two simple words that meant everything. Welcome home. Not just to the physical structure he had designed, but to the family within it. To the connections that made a house a home. To the life they were rebuilding together, day by day, promise by kept promise.

As his business partner Lars had observed that morning, this was indeed the new normal. And despite the professional uncertainties, despite the ongoing work required to maintain their reconnection, despite the inevitable challenges ahead, Haden found himself profoundly grateful for it.

Welcome home, indeed.

 

Chapter 6

The invitation to Oslo arrived on a Tuesday, just like all important things in Kaja's life. The prestigious artist residency would last three months. Three months away from silent breakfasts and separate bedrooms. Three months to remember who she was beyond the roles that had come to define her.

Except that those silent breakfasts had given way to actual conversations in recent months. The separate bedrooms had been reunited, tentatively at first and then with increasing comfort and intimacy. The roles that had once felt confining had begun to expand, to breathe, to allow for growth and change.

Which made the invitation both more and less complicated than it would have been just months ago.

Kaja sat in her studio, the official letter from the Norsk Tekstilkunst residency program in her hands, spring sunlight streaming through the windows and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Outside, Georgian Bay was in the midst of its annual transformation—ice breaking up along the shoreline, open water expanding day by day, the landscape shifting from winter's monochrome to spring's tentative palette.

"Three months in Oslo," she said aloud to the empty studio, testing how the words felt in her mouth. "Working with master weavers, exhibiting in a major gallery, reconnecting with my heritage."

It was the opportunity of a lifetime—the kind of professional recognition and development she had dreamed of for years. The residency accepted only eight artists worldwide each year, providing studio space, living accommodations, a stipend, and culminating in an exhibition at one of Oslo's most prestigious galleries. For a textile artist with Scandinavian roots, it was the equivalent of a musician being invited to perform at Carnegie Hall.

And yet.

And yet, the timing felt both perfect and terrible. Perfect because her work had been evolving in exciting new directions, because the gallery in Toronto had recently featured her pieces to critical acclaim, because she felt creatively energized in a way she hadn't in years. Terrible because she and Haden had only recently found their way back to each other, because the girls were at ages where three months was an eternity, because leaving now might seem like rejection rather than opportunity.

The studio door opened, bringing a blast of April air and her assistant Maren, arms full of thread samples from their supplier in Toronto.

"You would not believe the traffic on the highway," Maren began, then stopped, noticing Kaja's expression. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not a ghost," Kaja replied, holding up the letter. "An invitation. To the Norsk Tekstilkunst residency in Oslo."

Maren's eyes widened as she set down her packages. "The Norsk Tekstilkunst? That's huge! When?"

"August through October."

"And you're going, right? Please tell me you're going."

"I don't know yet. It's complicated."

"What's to decide? It's three months in Oslo with studio space, a stipend, and an exhibition at the end!"

What indeed? Only the logistics of leaving a family that was simultaneously healing and still fragile. Only the question of whether absence would further strengthen or potentially damage what she and Haden had been rebuilding. Only the fear that she might discover she preferred life without the constant negotiation of family needs, or conversely, that she might find herself desperately homesick for the very complications she sometimes chafed against.

"I need to discuss it with Haden and the girls," she said finally.

Maren looked skeptical but nodded. "Of course. Family first."

The phrase wasn't meant to be ironic, but it struck Kaja as such nonetheless. Family first. It had been her mantra for years, the principle around which she had organized her life and work. And it had served them well in many ways—her children were thriving, her marriage was healing, her home was becoming a place of connection rather than isolation.

But what about art first? Or self first? Were those valid alternatives, at least sometimes? Could prioritizing her artistic development ultimately benefit her family by making her more fulfilled, more whole, more fully herself?

These questions followed her through the day as she worked on her current project—a commissioned piece for a corporate headquarters in Toronto, inspired by the spring thaw on Georgian Bay. Her hands moved with practiced skill across the loom, creating patterns of blue and green and silver that suggested ice breaking up, water flowing, light changing. It was good work, satisfying work, but she couldn't help wondering what she might create in a different environment, with different influences and resources.

That afternoon, as she walked through Thornbury to pick up supplies, she bumped into Erik Larsson outside the local bookstore. He was arranging a display for an upcoming author event, his academic precision evident in the perfectly aligned books.

"Kaja! I was just thinking about you." His smile was warm, his accent still carrying traces of Sweden despite decades in Canada. "Did you get my message about the university workshop?"

"I did. I've been meaning to call you back."

"No rush. The workshop isn't until May." He studied her face. "Everything okay? You look..."

"Distracted," she supplied. "Just a lot on my mind."

"Good things, I hope?"

"Mostly. I've been invited to a residency in Oslo. Three months, starting in August."

"That's wonderful!" His enthusiasm was genuine, his eyes lighting up. "The Norsk Tekstilkunst?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I have colleagues at the University of Oslo who work with their programs. It's incredibly prestigious, Kaja. A real honor."

"I know. I just... I'm not sure if I can accept."

Erik's expression shifted to one of concern. "Because of your family?"

"Yes. Things with Haden have been... better recently. We've been working through some issues, reconnecting. And the girls..."

"The girls are fourteen and ten, right? Old enough to understand the importance of this opportunity. And there's such a thing as video calls these days." He smiled gently. "As for Haden... well, if things are truly better between you, he should support this."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is," Erik acknowledged. "Coffee? I have twenty minutes before my next class."

The café was warm and smelled of cinnamon. Erik remembered how she took her coffee—with a splash of milk, no sugar. Such a small thing, remembering, but it felt enormous.

They settled at a small table by the window, watching the spring activity on Thornbury's main street—tourists beginning to return after the winter lull, locals emerging from hibernation, the town coming back to life with the changing season.

"So," Erik said after they had exchanged pleasantries about mutual acquaintances and local events, "tell me more about this residency. What would you be working on?"

As Kaja described the program—the studio facilities, the master weavers she would work with, the exhibition opportunities—she felt her excitement building. Putting it into words made it more real, more tangible, more difficult to dismiss as a mere fantasy.

"It sounds perfect for you," Erik observed when she finished. "Your work has always had such strong Scandinavian influences, and this would allow you to explore those connections more deeply."

"That's what appeals to me most," Kaja admitted. "The chance to immerse myself in those traditions, to learn from masters, to see how contemporary Nordic artists are interpreting their heritage."

"So what's stopping you? Really?"

The directness of the question was characteristic of Erik, who had never been one for polite evasions. It was one of the things she had valued about him during their brief relationship years ago—his willingness to ask the difficult questions, to push past surface explanations to deeper truths.

"Fear, I suppose," she said after a moment. "Fear that leaving, even temporarily, might undo all the progress Haden and I have made. Fear that the girls might resent my absence. Fear that I might discover I prefer being away."

"All legitimate concerns," Erik nodded. "But also all manageable. People navigate temporary separations all the time. Military families, academics on sabbatical, business travelers."

"It's not just the separation itself. It's what it might represent. For years, our problems stemmed partly from Haden prioritizing work over family. If I do the same now..."

"Is that what this would be? Prioritizing work over family? Or is it investing in yourself so you have more to bring back to your family?"

The reframing struck Kaja forcefully. She had been thinking of the residency as something she would take from her family—time, presence, stability. But what if it was actually something she would ultimately give to them—a more fulfilled mother and wife, a more accomplished artist, a woman who had honored her talents and heritage?

"I hadn't thought of it that way," she admitted.

"Maybe you should," Erik suggested gently. "And maybe Haden should too."

As they finished their coffee, Erik mentioned his upcoming lecture series on Nordic literature and art at the regional university campus. "You should come to the one on textile traditions," he said. "It might help inform your decision about the residency."

"I'd like that," Kaja replied. "When is it?"

"Next Thursday evening. I could pick you up, if that would make it easier."

The offer was friendly, collegial, with no obvious ulterior motive. Yet Kaja hesitated, aware that accepting a ride from a male friend—a former boyfriend, no less—might be perceived differently by Haden, might add unnecessary complications to an already complex situation.

"Thank you, but I think I'll drive myself," she said. "But I'll definitely attend."

Erik nodded, understanding without need for explanation. "I'll save you a seat."

As they parted outside the café, Erik briefly touched her arm. "For what it's worth, Kaja, I think you should accept the residency. Your talent deserves that kind of platform, that kind of development. And if your family truly supports you, they'll find a way to make it work."

His words stayed with her as she completed her errands and returned to the studio. Your talent deserves that kind of platform. It was a validation she hadn't realized she needed—an external confirmation that her art mattered, that her creative development was worth prioritizing, at least sometimes.

Back at the studio, she found Maren cataloging the new thread samples, organizing them by color and texture with her characteristic efficiency.

"These indigo variations are gorgeous," Maren commented, holding up a series of blue threads ranging from almost black to pale sky. "Perfect for your bay thaw series."

"They are beautiful," Kaja agreed, examining the samples. "Set them aside for the next piece."

"Have you thought more about the residency?" Maren asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

"I have. I'm going to discuss it with Haden tonight."

"Good. Because if you don't accept, I might have to apply myself just so these threads don't go to waste," Maren joked, gesturing to the samples.

Kaja smiled, appreciating her assistant's attempt to lighten the mood. "You should apply regardless. You're ready for that kind of opportunity."

"Maybe in a few years," Maren demurred. "I still have so much to learn from you."

The afternoon passed in comfortable work, the rhythm of the loom soothing Kaja's anxieties about the evening's conversation. There was something meditative about weaving—the repetitive movements, the gradual emergence of pattern from separate threads, the balance of planning and intuition required to create something both structured and organic.

By the time she closed the studio and walked up to the main house, she felt more centered, more clear about what she wanted and needed. The residency was an extraordinary opportunity, one that aligned perfectly with her artistic goals and heritage. The question wasn't whether she wanted to accept—she did, with every fiber of her creative being—but how to do so in a way that strengthened rather than threatened her family connections.

She found Haden in the kitchen, surprisingly, preparing dinner. This was new—part of their efforts to share domestic responsibilities more equitably, to break old patterns that had contributed to their disconnection.

"You're cooking," she observed, setting down her bag.

"Trying to," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Though I may have been overly ambitious with this recipe."

"It smells wonderful." She moved beside him, examining the stir-fry in progress. "Need help?"

"Just company," he said, making space for her at the counter. "How was your day?"

"Interesting," she replied, deciding to approach the subject directly rather than waiting for a 'perfect' moment that might never come. "I received an invitation today. To an artist residency in Oslo."

Haden's hands paused briefly in their chopping, then resumed. "Oslo? That sounds significant."

"It is. The Norsk Tekstilkunst program. It's very prestigious—only eight artists worldwide each year. Three months of studio space, mentorship, culminating in an exhibition."

"When would it be?"

"August through October."

Haden was quiet for a moment, absorbing this information. "That's a long time to be away," he said finally.

"Yes," Kaja acknowledged. "It is."

"But an amazing opportunity."

"Also yes."

He turned to face her fully now, setting down his knife. "You want to accept."

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "I do. Very much. But not at the expense of what we've been rebuilding. Not if it would damage us."

Haden's expression was thoughtful, complex—concern mixed with something that might have been pride. "Tell me more about it," he said. "What exactly would you be doing there?"

As she outlined the program details, Kaja watched his face carefully, looking for signs of resistance or resentment. Instead, she saw genuine interest, questions forming behind his eyes, considerations being weighed.

"It sounds perfect for you," he said when she finished, unconsciously echoing Erik's words from earlier. "Your work has always drawn so deeply on those traditions."

"It has," she agreed. "And this would be a chance to explore that connection more fully, to learn from masters, to see how contemporary Nordic artists are interpreting their heritage."

"The girls would miss you terribly."

"I know. I would miss them too. But there are video calls, and perhaps they could visit for a week during their fall break?"

"That could work," Haden nodded slowly. "And I could potentially come for a weekend or two as well, depending on work."

The fact that he was already problem-solving, already looking for ways to make it work rather than reasons why it couldn't, filled Kaja with a surge of gratitude and relief. This was different than the old pattern, where career opportunities were assumed to be Haden's domain while family responsibilities were hers.

"You're not upset?" she asked, wanting to be certain.

"I'm... adjusting to the idea," he replied honestly. "Three months is a long time. But I understand why this matters to you. And after everything we've been working through these past months, I think we're strong enough to handle a temporary separation."

"Are we?" The question emerged more vulnerable than she had intended.

Haden reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers in a gesture that had become familiar again recently. "I believe we are. We're not the same people we were six months ago, Kaja. We're talking now, really talking. We're present with each other. That won't disappear just because there's physical distance between us."

His words echoed her own thoughts from earlier, her hope that what they had rebuilt was solid enough to withstand separation, that distance might even strengthen certain aspects of their connection by requiring more deliberate communication.

"Thank you," she said simply. "For understanding. For supporting me."

"That's what partners do," he replied, squeezing her hand. "Now, help me figure out what I'm doing wrong with this stir-fry before I ruin dinner completely."

The conversation shifted to more immediate concerns—dinner preparation, the girls' activities, plans for the weekend. But underneath the ordinary domestic exchange, Kaja felt a profound sense of gratitude and possibility. The invitation to Oslo represented not just a professional opportunity but a test of their reconstructed relationship—a chance to prove that what they had rebuilt could withstand challenges, could accommodate individual growth alongside mutual support.

Later that evening, after dinner had been eaten (the stir-fry salvaged with Kaja's help) and the girls had gone to bed, Kaja and Haden sat on the deck overlooking Georgian Bay. The April night was cool but not cold, stars visible above, the sound of water lapping at the shore below. In the distance, the lights of Thornbury twinkled along the shoreline.

"I've been thinking about the residency," Haden said, breaking a comfortable silence. "About what it might mean for us."

"And?" Kaja prompted when he didn't immediately continue.

"And I think it might be good for us. Not just for you professionally, but for our relationship."

"How so?"

"We've been working so hard these past months to rebuild, to reconnect. But we've been doing it in the same environment where we grew apart. Maybe some time apart, in different environments, would give us perspective. Help us see more clearly what we want and need from each other."

It was an insightful observation, one that reflected the emotional growth Haden had been working on through therapy and their ongoing conversations. The ability to see their relationship as a dynamic entity that might benefit from change rather than a fragile structure that required constant maintenance was new and encouraging.

"I've been thinking something similar," Kaja admitted. "That distance might actually help us continue the work we've been doing. Force us to communicate more deliberately, more thoughtfully."

"Exactly. And it would give me a chance to be more present with the girls, to take on responsibilities I've often left to you."

"They'd like that, I think. Especially Reyna. She misses her connection with you."

Haden nodded, acknowledging the truth of this observation. "I've been trying to rebuild that too. This would accelerate the process."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the stars, listening to the water. The bay was mostly open now, the ice having retreated to just a few protected coves. Soon it would be warm enough for swimming, for boating, for all the summer activities that transformed their relationship with the landscape.

"So," Kaja said finally, "you think I should accept?"

"I think we should make this decision together, considering all aspects," Haden replied. "But yes, I think you should accept. It's an extraordinary opportunity, one that aligns perfectly with your artistic goals. And I believe we're strong enough now to handle the separation."

"What about the girls? How do we tell them?"

"Honestly. Directly. Acknowledging that it will be difficult but also explaining why it matters."

"Reyna might resist," Kaja predicted. "She's at an age where change feels threatening."

"Possibly. But she's also old enough to understand the importance of professional development. And she has her music to focus on."

"And Hilde will have questions. So many questions."

Haden smiled. "Hilde always has questions. But she also has that uncanny wisdom of hers. I suspect she might understand better than any of us."

As if summoned by their discussion, the door to the deck slid open, and Hilde appeared in her pajamas, hair tousled from sleep.

"I had a dream," she announced without preamble. "About Mom going on a long journey across the ocean. Like Great-Grandfather did, but in reverse."

Kaja and Haden exchanged startled glances. "That's... quite a coincidence," Kaja said carefully. "We were just talking about something similar."

"It's not a coincidence," Hilde said with the certainty that often caught them off guard. "Mr. Olsen says there are no coincidences, only patterns we haven't recognized yet."

"Does he now?" Haden's tone was amused but not dismissive. "And what pattern do you see here, little völva?"

"That sometimes people need to leave to find their way home," Hilde replied simply. "Like in the stories about Odin's wanderings."

Again, Kaja was struck by her younger daughter's intuitive understanding of complex emotional dynamics. "That's very wise, Hilde. And yes, I've been invited to spend some time in Norway—in Oslo—working with other artists. It would be for three months, starting in August."

"I know," Hilde nodded. "That was in my dream too. You were weaving with silver and gold threads, and people from all over came to see your work."

"That sounds like a good dream," Haden said, drawing Hilde onto his lap despite her growing size—a gesture of comfort and connection that had become more frequent in recent months.

"It was. And in the dream, we came to visit you. We flew across the ocean and saw where our ancestors came from."

"That's actually something we've been discussing," Kaja said, exchanging glances with Haden. "The possibility of you and Reyna visiting during your fall break, and Dad coming for a weekend or two as well."

"See? Not a coincidence," Hilde said triumphantly. "A pattern."

"Perhaps you're right," Kaja conceded, smiling at her daughter's certainty. "Now, shouldn't you be asleep? It's a school night."

"I needed to tell you about the dream," Hilde explained, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world. "So you would know it's the right decision."

"And what decision is that?" Haden asked.

"For Mom to go to Norway. To follow the pattern."

With that pronouncement, Hilde slid off Haden's lap and padded back toward the door. "Goodnight," she called over her shoulder. "Don't stay up too late. You both have important work tomorrow."

After she had gone, Kaja and Haden sat in bemused silence for a moment.

"Well," Haden said finally, "I guess that settles it. When the völva speaks, who are we to argue?"

Kaja laughed, the sound carrying across the dark water. "She is something, isn't she? Sometimes I wonder if she really does have some kind of second sight."

"Or just very good hearing," Haden suggested. "She might have overheard us talking earlier."

"Possibly. Though that doesn't explain the specific details about weaving with silver and gold threads."

"True. Perhaps there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, to quote the Bard."

"Perhaps indeed," Kaja agreed, leaning against him in the cool night air. "So... Oslo?"

"Oslo," Haden confirmed, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Three months of artistic immersion for you, single parenting for me, and a test of our newly rebuilt communication skills for both of us."

"When you put it that way, it sounds terrifying."

"Terrifying but worthwhile. Like all the best adventures."

As they sat together under the stars, Georgian Bay stretching before them, Kaja felt a complex mixture of emotions—excitement about the professional opportunity, anxiety about the separation, gratitude for Haden's support, and a deep, abiding love for this man who was working so hard to grow alongside her.

The invitation to Oslo had arrived on a Tuesday, just like all important things in Kaja's life. And like many of those important things, it represented both an ending and a beginning—the conclusion of one chapter in their story and the opening of another, full of possibilities not yet imagined but newly within reach.

 

Chapter 7

Reyna discovered her father sleeping in his office when she needed to print her homework at 2 AM. The school project on Canadian immigration patterns had taken longer than expected, and her printer at home had run out of ink—a fact she'd discovered at midnight, too late to do anything about it. But her father's office was only a ten-minute bike ride from their house, and she knew where he kept the spare key.

What she hadn't expected was to find him there, asleep on the uncomfortable leather couch, his drafting table covered with sketches and his laptop still open beside him. She stood in the doorway, watching him for a moment—this man who had once seemed all-powerful to her, now looking vulnerable and somehow smaller in sleep.

She cleared her throat. "Dad?"

Haden startled awake, disoriented. "Reyna? What time is it?"

"Late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. I need to print my project."

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. "Of course. The printer should be on."

She moved to the computer station, plugging in her USB drive while stealing glances at her father, who was now standing at the window looking out at Thornbury's empty main street.

"Working late?" she asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Deadline," he replied, the lie hanging between them.

The printer hummed to life, spitting out pages of her project. In the quiet office, the sound seemed unnaturally loud.

"Mom got invited to some art thing in Oslo," Reyna said, watching her father's reflection in the window. "For three months."

His shoulders stiffened slightly, but his voice remained neutral. "Did she?"

"She hasn't decided yet. I think she's waiting to talk to you about it."

"I see."

But he didn't see, Reyna thought. None of them really saw each other anymore. They moved around their beautiful house like ghosts, present but not connecting.

Except that wasn't entirely true anymore. Things had been different these past few months—her parents talking again, her father actually present for dinner most nights, a tentative warmth returning to their home. And now this: her father sleeping at his office again, as if the progress they had made was unraveling.

"My heritage project is due Friday," she said, changing the subject. "I need to interview family members about our Norwegian background."

Her father turned from the window, and for a moment Reyna thought he might actually engage, might share stories of his grandfather or the traditions that had shaped their family. Instead, he looked at his watch.

"Ask your grandmother," he said. "She loves talking about the old country."

The printer finished its work, and Reyna collected her pages. "Thanks for letting me use the printer."

"Do you need a ride home? It's late."

"I have my bike."

He frowned. "It's not safe to ride alone at this hour."

"I'll be fine, Dad. I've been doing it for years."

The words came out sharper than she intended, laden with meaning beyond their surface. I've been doing it for years. Managing. Adapting. Growing up while you weren't looking.

To her surprise, instead of dismissing her concern or retreating into work mode, her father nodded slowly. "You're right. And I'm sorry for that. But I'd still feel better if I drove you home. We can put your bike in the back of the car."

The offer—and the acknowledgment behind it—caught Reyna off guard. "Okay," she agreed after a moment. "Thanks."

As they loaded her bike into her father's Volvo, the spring night was cool and quiet around them, stars visible above Thornbury's low buildings. It was the kind of night that had always made Reyna feel small but significant, a tiny part of something vast and mysterious.

"So," her father said as they drove through the empty streets, "your mother told you about the Oslo invitation?"

"Not exactly. I overheard her talking to Hilde about it."

"Ah." He was quiet for a moment, then: "What do you think about it?"

The question surprised her. Adults rarely asked for her opinion on important matters, assuming that at fourteen she wouldn't have meaningful insights to offer.

"I think it's a big deal," she said carefully. "For her art and stuff. But also... it's a long time to be away."

"It is," her father agreed. "Three months is significant."

"Would you go with her?"

"No. I'd stay here with you and Hilde. But we might visit for a week during your fall break."

"So you've already discussed it," Reyna realized. "You and Mom."

"Yes. Last night."

"And?"

"And we think she should accept. It's an extraordinary opportunity, one that aligns perfectly with her artistic goals and heritage."

He sounded like he was reciting from a prepared statement, Reyna thought. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

"But what about us?" she pressed. "What about what you've been working on together? I thought things were getting better."

Her father glanced at her, surprise evident in his expression. "They are getting better. Much better. This doesn't change that."

"Doesn't it? You're sleeping at your office again."

The observation hung between them as they turned onto the shore road that led to their home. Georgian Bay was visible through the trees, moonlight glinting off the water that had mostly freed itself from winter's ice.

"Tonight was... an exception," her father said finally. "I lost track of time working on the merger proposal. It's due tomorrow, and there were last-minute changes to incorporate."

"The merger with the Toronto firm?"

"Yes. How did you know about that?"

"I listen," Reyna said simply. "When you and Mom talk at dinner. When Lars calls the house. I pay attention."

Her father was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. "Yes, well, the merger is a significant change for the business. It requires careful consideration."

"And Mom going to Oslo is a significant change for our family. Doesn't that require careful consideration too?"

They had reached their driveway now, the house dark except for a single light in the kitchen. Her father turned off the engine but made no move to get out of the car.

"It does," he agreed. "And we are considering it carefully. But sometimes, Reyna, the right decision isn't the easy one. Sometimes supporting someone you love means accepting temporary discomfort or separation because it allows them to grow in ways that matter deeply to them."

It was the most direct, thoughtful response he had given her in... well, possibly ever. Not a dismissal, not a platitude, but an actual engagement with her concern.

"I get that," she said after a moment. "I just... I don't want things to go back to how they were before. When you were never home and Mom was sad all the time and Hilde was doing her weird rituals trying to fix everything."

"I don't want that either," her father said softly. "And I promise you, that's not what's happening here. Your mother and I are in a very different place now than we were six months ago. We're communicating, really communicating. We're present with each other. That won't disappear just because there's physical distance between us for a while."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

The sincerity in his voice was convincing, but Reyna had learned to be cautious with hope. "Then why were you sleeping at your office tonight?"

Her father sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that reminded her suddenly, painfully, of herself. "Because I'm still learning, Reyna. Still trying to break old habits. I got caught up in work and made a poor decision. But I recognize that now, and I'll do better."

The admission—honest, undefensive—was another surprise. The father she had known for most of her life would have justified, would have explained away, would have made it about work responsibilities rather than personal choices.

"Okay," she said finally. "I believe you."

"Thank you." He reached over and squeezed her hand briefly. "Now, let's get your bike and go inside. It's late, and you have school tomorrow."

As they unloaded her bike and wheeled it to the garage, Reyna felt something shift inside her—not resolution, not complete trust, but perhaps the beginning of a new kind of relationship with her father. One where they could speak directly to each other, where her concerns were taken seriously, where his responses were thoughtful rather than dismissive.

Inside, the house was quiet, everyone else asleep. Her father paused at the bottom of the stairs.

"Goodnight, Reyna," he said softly. "And thank you for the conversation. For... holding me accountable."

"Goodnight, Dad," she replied, oddly touched by his words. "See you at breakfast?"

"Definitely. I'll make pancakes."

"You can't cook."

"I can follow a recipe," he protested with a small smile. "How hard can pancakes be?"

The answer, as it turned out the next morning, was "surprisingly hard." Reyna came downstairs to find her father in the kitchen, surrounded by flour and eggshells, a stack of misshapen pancakes on a plate beside the stove.

"They taste better than they look," he assured her, flipping another oddly contoured specimen. "At least, I hope they do."

Her mother was already at the table, coffee in hand, watching the pancake production with amused tolerance. "He refused all offers of help," she informed Reyna. "This is a solo artistic endeavor, apparently."

"Architectural endeavor," her father corrected. "I'm building pancakes."

"They look more like abstract sculptures," Reyna observed, pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

"Critics," her father muttered, but he was smiling. "Everyone's a critic."

The normalcy of the scene—her father cooking breakfast, her mother relaxed and amused, the kitchen warm and filled with morning light—struck Reyna forcefully. This was what she had missed during the difficult months, what she had feared might be lost permanently. And what, apparently, her parents were committed to maintaining even through significant changes like her mother's potential Oslo residency.

"Where's Hilde?" she asked, taking a seat at the table.

"Still asleep," her mother replied. "She was up late reading Norse mythology again. Something about Odin's wanderings and the wisdom he gained through travel."

"Subtle," Reyna commented. "Real subtle, Hilde."

Her mother laughed. "She does have her own way of processing things, doesn't she?"

"Speaking of processing things," her father said, bringing the plate of misshapen pancakes to the table, "your mother and I wanted to talk to you about the Oslo residency. Properly, not through overheard conversations or late-night car chats."

"Okay," Reyna said cautiously, accepting a pancake that resembled Norway itself, appropriately enough.

"I've been invited to spend three months at the Norsk Tekstilkunst residency program," her mother explained. "It's an extraordinary opportunity to work with master weavers, to explore my Nordic heritage more deeply, to exhibit in a prestigious gallery."

"And you want to go," Reyna said. It wasn't a question.

"I do," her mother acknowledged. "Very much. But not at the expense of our family's wellbeing. That's why we're discussing it openly, making sure everyone's concerns are addressed."

"What about your concerns?" Reyna asked, looking directly at her father. "Are you really okay with Mom being gone for three months?"

Her father set down his coffee cup, considering the question seriously. "I'll miss her terribly," he said finally. "We all will. But I believe this is important for her artistic development, for her connection to her heritage. And I believe our relationship is strong enough now to withstand a temporary separation."

"We've talked about ways to stay connected," her mother added. "Regular video calls, emails, maybe even old-fashioned letters like your great-grandparents exchanged when they were separated."

"And you and Hilde would visit during your fall break," her father continued. "I might come for a weekend or two as well, depending on work."

"What about the merger?" Reyna asked. "Won't that make it harder for you to get away?"

Again, her parents exchanged surprised glances at her knowledge of their affairs.

"The merger is still being negotiated," her father explained. "But yes, if it goes through, there will be additional responsibilities, more travel to Toronto. That's something we're factoring into our planning."

"So you'll both be gone a lot," Reyna summarized, the familiar feeling of abandonment rising despite her best efforts to be mature about the situation.

"I won't be 'gone' in the same way," her father clarified. "Even with increased Toronto trips, I'd be home most nights. And when I am away, your grandmother has offered to stay with you and Hilde."

"We're not trying to minimize the impact this will have," her mother said gently. "Three months is a long time. There will be difficult moments, times when we all miss each other desperately. But there will also be new experiences, new perspectives, new connections to our heritage."

"And most importantly," her father added, "there will be growth. For your mother as an artist, for me as a more present father, for you and Hilde as increasingly independent young women, and for all of us as a family learning new ways to stay connected across distance."

It was a persuasive presentation, Reyna had to admit. They had clearly thought this through, considered the implications from multiple angles, prepared responses to likely concerns. And yet...

"I'm still not sure," she said honestly. "It feels like... like we just got back to being a real family. And now everything's changing again."

"Change isn't always bad," her mother said softly. "Sometimes it's how we grow stronger, more resilient."

"Like a tree," her father added. "The ones that never face wind or storms develop shallow roots. It's the challenges that make them dig deeper, become more stable."

"Did you just compare our family to a tree?" Reyna couldn't help but smile at the architectural metaphor.

"I did," her father admitted. "Too much?"

"A little. But I get the point."

They continued talking as they ate the misshapen but surprisingly tasty pancakes, addressing practical concerns about schedules and responsibilities during her mother's absence. By the time Hilde finally appeared, tousled and sleepy-eyed, Reyna had moved from resistance to reluctant acceptance of the plan.

"Mom's going to Oslo," she informed her sister as Hilde climbed into her chair.

"I know," Hilde replied, reaching for a pancake. "I had a dream about it. She was weaving with silver and gold threads, and people from all over came to see her work."

"Of course you did," Reyna rolled her eyes, but fondly. "And let me guess—we all lived happily ever after?"

"Not exactly," Hilde said seriously. "But we all grew wiser. Especially you."

"Me? Why especially me?"

"Because you're the most resistant to change," Hilde explained, as if this were obvious. "So you have the most to learn."

Their parents exchanged amused glances across the table, clearly trying not to laugh at Hilde's matter-of-fact assessment.

"Out of the mouths of babes," their father murmured.

"I'm not a baby," Hilde protested. "I'm almost eleven."

"It's just an expression, squirt," Reyna told her. "It means you sometimes say things that are surprisingly wise for your age."

"Oh." Hilde considered this, then nodded. "That's true. I do."

This time their parents did laugh, the sound filling the kitchen with warmth and connection. And despite her lingering concerns about the changes ahead, Reyna found herself laughing too, caught up in the simple joy of family breakfast on a spring morning, of pancakes and teasing and plans for the future.

Later that day, as she walked to school with her friend Mika, Reyna found herself trying to explain the situation.

"So your mom's going to Norway for three months?" Mika summarized. "That's a long time."

"Yeah," Reyna agreed. "But it's this super prestigious art thing that could really help her career. And she and Dad have talked it all through, made plans for staying connected."

"And you're okay with it?"

"I'm... getting there," Reyna admitted. "It's not ideal, but I understand why it matters to her. And they're letting me and Hilde visit during fall break, which will be cool. I've never been to Europe."

"That is cool," Mika agreed. "And hey, maybe you could research some Norwegian folk music while you're there. For your band."

The suggestion sparked something in Reyna—a realization that her mother's journey could have meaning for her own artistic development as well. "That's actually a really good idea. There might be music archives I could visit, maybe even musicians I could meet."

"See? Silver lining."

"I guess. Still going to be weird having Mom so far away for so long."

"But your dad will be there, right? You said things have been better with him lately."

"They have," Reyna acknowledged. "He's really trying. Even made pancakes this morning."

"Wow. Actual cooking? That's progress."

"I know, right? They were weird-looking but tasted okay. And he actually talked to me last night—like, really talked, not just the usual dad stuff about grades and practice schedules."

"About what?"

"About Mom going to Oslo. About how supporting someone you love sometimes means accepting separation if it helps them grow. About how their relationship is different now than it was before."

"That's... surprisingly deep for a dad," Mika observed.

"I know. He's changing. They both are."

As they reached the school, joining the stream of students heading inside, Reyna found herself reflecting on her father's words from the night before. Sometimes the right decision isn't the easy one. Sometimes supporting someone you love means accepting temporary discomfort or separation because it allows them to grow in ways that matter deeply to them.

Perhaps, she thought, that wisdom applied not just to her parents' relationship but to her own connection with them. Perhaps part of growing up was learning to support others' journeys even when they took them temporarily away from you. Perhaps love wasn't about constant presence but about creating space for growth and change, about maintaining connection across distance and difference.

These were complex ideas for a fourteen-year-old, but Reyna had never been an ordinary teenager. Her family's challenges had forced her to develop emotional insights beyond her years, to grapple with questions of love and commitment and growth that many adults still struggled to understand.

In music class that morning, Ms. Larsson announced a special summer program—a week-long intensive workshop on Nordic folk traditions, culminating in a performance at Thornbury's midsummer festival.

"It's a wonderful opportunity to explore the musical heritage of Scandinavia," the teacher explained. "We'll have guest instructors from Sweden and Norway, traditional instruments to try, even workshops on the cultural context of the music."

Reyna found herself unexpectedly excited by the prospect. If her mother was going to explore their Nordic heritage through textiles, perhaps she could do the same through music. It would be a connection between them even when physically separated—a shared journey of discovery, approached through their different artistic mediums.

After class, she approached Ms. Larsson to express her interest in the program.

"I'm so glad," the teacher said warmly. "I thought of you immediately when this opportunity arose. Your arrangement of 'The Sea Widow' shows such sensitivity to the Nordic musical tradition."

"My mom's going to Oslo for an art residency," Reyna explained. "Working with textile masters, exploring our heritage. I thought maybe I could do something similar with music."

"What a wonderful parallel," Ms. Larsson nodded. "The summer program would be perfect preparation for that. And if you're visiting Oslo in the fall, I could suggest some musical archives and performances you might want to experience while there."

"That would be great," Reyna said, genuinely enthusiastic now. "I'd like to record some authentic performances if possible, maybe even meet with musicians who specialize in traditional forms."

"I'll put together some contacts for you. I studied in Oslo myself, years ago, and still have connections in the folk music community there."

As she left the classroom, Reyna felt something shift inside her—a reframing of her mother's upcoming absence from pure loss to potential opportunity. If they could each explore their heritage through their respective arts, if they could share those discoveries across the distance, perhaps the separation could become a form of connection rather than division.

That evening, she mentioned the summer music program to her parents over dinner.

"It sounds perfect for you," her mother said enthusiastically. "Especially with our Oslo connection. You could continue those explorations when you visit in October."

"That's what I was thinking," Reyna agreed. "Ms. Larsson is going to give me contacts for musicians and archives in Oslo."

"We could coordinate," her mother suggested. "If you're interested in the musical traditions, I could focus some of my research on the textile patterns that often accompanied those traditions. Many Norwegian folk songs were work songs—for weaving, spinning, even milking."

"Really?" Reyna hadn't considered this connection. "That would be cool. Like a joint project."

"Exactly. And when you visit in October, we could put together what we've each discovered."

"A multimedia presentation," her father suggested. "Music and textiles together, showing the connections between different art forms within the same cultural tradition."

The idea took hold, expanding as they discussed it—not just music and textiles, but perhaps photography (Reyna's secondary interest) and architecture (her father's expertise) and even Hilde's growing knowledge of Norse mythology and symbols.

"We could call it 'Heritage Threads,'" Hilde proposed. "Because it's about the threads that connect us—to each other, to our ancestors, to our arts."

"That's perfect," their mother said, smiling at her younger daughter. "Heritage Threads it is."

As the conversation continued, flowing naturally from the project idea to practical considerations about the summer program to Hilde's latest discoveries from Mr. Olsen's teachings, Reyna felt her resistance to her mother's Oslo journey continuing to soften. The residency was still months away, and much could change before August. But for now, at least, she could see possibilities rather than just losses, connections rather than just separations.

After dinner, she retreated to her room to practice guitar, working on a new arrangement of a Norwegian folk song Ms. Larsson had introduced in class. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, with modal shifts that created an otherworldly quality, a sense of connection to something ancient and enduring.

As her fingers found the patterns on the strings, Reyna thought about heritage, about the musical traditions that had been passed down through generations, surviving journeys across oceans, adapting to new environments while maintaining their essential character. Perhaps families were like that too—capable of stretching across distances, of adapting to new circumstances, of finding harmony in separation as well as togetherness.

It was a comforting thought, one that allowed her to approach the coming changes with something closer to curiosity than fear. Between worlds, she might discover new strengths, new connections, new ways of being both independent and deeply linked to those she loved.

The music flowed from her fingers, filling her room with sounds that bridged past and present, tradition and innovation, separation and connection. Outside her window, Georgian Bay glittered in the spring twilight, its waters now fully freed from winter's ice, open to the possibilities of the coming seasons.

 

Chapter 8

Hilde befriended Mr. Olsen, the 85-year-old Norwegian neighbor who taught her about runes and gave her cookies that tasted like cardamom and old stories. His cottage sat at the edge of their property, a small stone house that had been there long before the Snjouglas built their modern Scandinavian-inspired home.

On this particular April afternoon, as spring sunshine warmed the awakening earth and the last patches of snow retreated into shaded corners, Hilde sat on Mr. Olsen's porch with her rune stones spread before her on a small table.

"This one means family," he said, showing her a carved stone. "Othala. Heritage, inheritance, ancestral property."

"Is it magic?" Hilde asked, turning the smooth stone over in her small hands.

"No," Mr. Olsen replied with a smile that crinkled his entire face. "But people are, when they remember to be."

Hilde decided that her family needed remembering.

Mr. Olsen's cottage was filled with treasures from Norway—carved wooden trolls, rosemaled plates, books in a language Hilde couldn't read but loved to hear when Mr. Olsen read aloud. On his walls hung old photographs of stern-faced men and women in traditional dress, standing before fjords and mountains.

"Were they happy?" Hilde asked, studying a particularly somber family portrait.

"People didn't smile for photographs then," Mr. Olsen explained. "But yes, I think they were happy in their way. Life was hard, but clear. Everyone knew their place and purpose."

"Did they ever forget how to talk to each other?"

Mr. Olsen looked at her with those pale blue eyes that seemed to see everything. "Why do you ask such things, little one?"

"My parents are talking again," Hilde said. "Really talking, not just saying things like 'pass the salt' or 'Hilde needs new snow boots.' But now Mom might go to Oslo for three months, and I'm worried they'll forget again."

The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. The Norsk Tekstilkunst residency. A great honor for your mother."

"You know about it?" Hilde was surprised.

"News travels quickly in small towns, especially among those with Norwegian connections." Mr. Olsen smiled. "And your mother mentioned it when she came to ask about translating those letters you found."

The letters—Hilde had almost forgotten about them with everything else happening. She and her mother had discovered them in the attic months ago, correspondence between her great-grandparents during their separation when he first came to Canada.

"Did you translate them?" she asked eagerly.

"Some," Mr. Olsen nodded. "They're quite beautiful. Your great-grandfather wrote to your great-grandmother every week, telling her about his new life here, describing the landscape, the people, the work he was doing to prepare a home for her and their children."

"And did she write back?"

"Oh yes. She told him about life in Norway, about how the children were growing, about her preparations for the journey to join him. They were separated for nearly two years, but their connection remained strong through those letters."

"Two years," Hilde repeated, trying to imagine such a long separation. "That's much longer than three months."

"Indeed it is. And they didn't have video calls or email or text messages. Just letters that took weeks to cross the ocean."

"But they remembered how to talk to each other," Hilde observed. "Even with all that distance."

"Yes. Sometimes distance helps us see what is right before us."

Hilde considered this wisdom, turning one of her rune stones over in her hand. "Mom says she and Dad are strong enough now to handle being apart. That they're not the same people they were before."

"And what do you think?" Mr. Olsen asked, respecting her opinion in a way adults rarely did.

"I think... I think they're trying very hard," Hilde said carefully. "Dad made pancakes yesterday. They were weird-looking but he tried. And Mom is talking about a project we can all work on together—about our heritage, connecting music and textiles and mythology."

"That sounds wonderful," Mr. Olsen nodded approvingly. "Creating something together even while physically apart."

"Heritage Threads," Hilde said. "That's what we're calling it. Because it's about the threads that connect us—to each other, to our ancestors, to our arts."

"A perfect name," the old man agreed. "And a perfect metaphor for what your family is doing—finding the threads that connect you across time and space."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the birds singing in the awakening spring landscape. Georgian Bay was visible through the trees, its waters now fully free of ice, sparkling in the afternoon sun.

"Mr. Olsen," Hilde said finally, "can I ask you something important?"

"Of course, little völva."

"Why did you never get married? Never have a family of your own?"

The question clearly surprised him, his bushy white eyebrows rising toward his hairline. "My, you do ask direct questions, don't you?"

"Mom says I'm too blunt sometimes," Hilde admitted. "But I really want to know."

Mr. Olsen was quiet for a long moment, his gaze drifting toward the bay. "I was in love once," he said finally. "Many years ago, when I first came to Canada. She was Finnish-Canadian, beautiful and talented. We met in Toronto at a Scandinavian cultural event."

"What happened?" Hilde prompted when he fell silent.

"Life happened. She wanted to stay in the city, build her career there. I wanted to find a quieter place, somewhere that reminded me of home. We chose different paths."

"Was it Grandmother?" Hilde asked, suddenly making a connection. "Mom's mother?"

Mr. Olsen looked startled, then smiled ruefully. "You truly do have the sight, little one. Yes, it was your grandmother. But that's ancient history now. Water under the bridge, as they say."

"Do you regret it? Not following her to Toronto?"

"Regret is a complicated thing, Hilde. I've had a good life here in Thornbury. Made friends, built a career as a teacher, found peace in this little cottage by the bay. And your grandmother had a good life too—married your grandfather, had your mother, built her own career in textile arts that your mother has now continued."

"But you never found someone else to love?"

"Not in the same way," Mr. Olsen admitted. "But love comes in many forms. I've had dear friends, students who became like family, neighbors who look after me in my old age." He smiled at her. "And now I have a little völva who brings sunshine to my days with her questions and her wisdom."

Hilde beamed at this, pleased to be acknowledged as a source of joy in the old man's life. But something still troubled her.

"If you could go back," she asked, "would you make a different choice? Would you follow Grandmother to Toronto?"

Mr. Olsen considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "I don't think so," he said finally. "Not because I didn't love her enough, but because we truly wanted different things from life. Love is essential, Hilde, but it's not always sufficient. There must also be shared vision, compatible dreams."

"Like Mom and Dad," Hilde nodded. "They love each other, but they also need to follow their dreams. Mom with her art in Oslo, Dad with his buildings here."

"Exactly. The difference is that your parents are finding ways to support each other's dreams while maintaining their connection. They're building bridges rather than choosing separate shores."

"Bridges," Hilde repeated, liking the image. "Like the glass walkway Dad is designing between the house and Mom's studio."

"Is he now?" Mr. Olsen looked interested. "That's a powerful symbol—a transparent connection, allowing visibility while maintaining separate spaces."

"He says it's so Mom can work from home but still have her own creative space. So she can see us and we can see her, but without interrupting her work."

"Your father understands architecture as metaphor," Mr. Olsen observed. "That's a rare and valuable gift."

They continued talking as the afternoon progressed, moving from personal matters to Hilde's ongoing education in Norse mythology and runic traditions. Mr. Olsen was a patient teacher, answering her endless questions, guiding her through the complex stories and symbols with a gentle hand.

"I've been thinking," he said as their session was drawing to a close, "about your mother's upcoming journey to Oslo. Perhaps we could create something special for her—a protective charm of sorts, using traditional methods."

"Like magic?" Hilde asked eagerly.

"Like tradition," Mr. Olsen corrected with a smile. "A connection to the old ways, a reminder of home and family that she can take with her."

"What kind of charm?"

"In the old days, travelers often carried small pouches containing meaningful items—perhaps a stone from home soil, a piece of cloth woven by a loved one, a carved symbol for protection. These weren't magical in the way modern people think of magic, but they were powerful reminders of connection, of belonging."

"Could we make one for Mom?" Hilde was already excited by the idea.

"We could indeed. And perhaps one for each family member as well—something to help you all feel connected during the separation."

"Yes!" Hilde clapped her hands. "And we could include one of the rune stones you gave me in each pouch!"

"An excellent idea," Mr. Olsen nodded. "Different runes for different needs—perhaps Raidho for your mother's journey, Othala for your father to remember family connections, Mannaz for you and Reyna to strengthen your sense of self and community."

"When can we start?" Hilde was practically bouncing with enthusiasm now.

"Next time you visit," Mr. Olsen promised. "I'll gather the materials we need. In the meantime, think about what else might be meaningful to include for each person."

As Hilde walked home through the spring afternoon, her mind was already racing with ideas for the protective charms. For her mother, perhaps a small piece of fabric from her first successful weaving. For her father, a tiny sketch of their home. For Reyna, a guitar pick used in her Norwegian folk song arrangement. For herself... well, she wasn't sure yet what would represent her contribution to the family's connection.

At home, she found her mother in the kitchen preparing dinner, humming softly as she worked—a Norwegian folk tune that Reyna had been practicing recently.

"How was your visit with Mr. Olsen?" Kaja asked, looking up from chopping vegetables.

"Good," Hilde replied, setting her backpack on a chair. "He told me about the letters from Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother. He says they're beautiful."

"They are," her mother agreed. "I've read some of his translations. They show such devotion, such determination to maintain their connection across the ocean and the years of separation."

"Like you and Dad will do when you're in Oslo?"

"Yes, very much like that. Though we have many more ways to stay connected than they did."

"Mr. Olsen says sometimes distance helps us see what is right before us," Hilde observed, climbing onto a stool to watch her mother cook.

Kaja smiled. "Mr. Olsen is a wise man. And he's right about that. Sometimes we need perspective—physical or emotional distance—to truly appreciate what we have."

"Is that why you want to go to Oslo? To get perspective?"

Her mother paused in her chopping, considering the question seriously. "Partly," she admitted. "But mostly because it's an extraordinary opportunity to develop my art, to connect more deeply with our heritage, to learn from masters in my field."

"Will you miss us?"

"Every single day," Kaja said without hesitation. "But I'll also know that I'm growing as an artist, and that growth will ultimately enrich our family life when I return."

Hilde nodded, accepting this explanation. "Mr. Olsen and I are going to make protective charms for everyone. Traditional ones, like travelers used to carry in the old days."

"That sounds lovely," her mother smiled. "What will you put in them?"

"It's a secret," Hilde said seriously. "But they'll help us stay connected even when we're apart."

"I look forward to receiving mine, then."

As they continued talking, Hilde helping with dinner preparations in her somewhat haphazard way, she found herself studying her mother closely—the silver threading through her dark hair, the laugh lines around her eyes, the capable hands that could create such beauty on the loom. She seemed different these past few months—lighter somehow, more present, more fully herself.

Her father, too, had changed—making efforts to be home for dinner, engaging in real conversations, even attempting to cook occasionally (with mixed results). The silence that had once filled their beautiful home had given way to talking, to music, to laughter. The separate orbits they had maintained had begun to intersect again, creating new patterns of connection.

Perhaps, Hilde thought, her parents really were strong enough now to handle a temporary separation. Perhaps, like the ancient travelers with their protective charms, they had found ways to carry each other with them even when physically apart.

Later that evening, after dinner had been eaten and the kitchen cleaned, Hilde retreated to her room to work on her contribution to the family's "Heritage Threads" project. Her focus was Norse mythology and symbols—how ancient stories and signs had carried meaning across generations, how they continued to resonate in contemporary life.

She spread her books and notes across her bed, surrounded by images of Yggdrasil the world tree, of Odin's ravens Huginn and Muninn, of the Norns weaving the threads of fate. These stories had always fascinated her, but now they took on new significance as she considered her family's situation.

Odin had sacrificed his eye for wisdom, had hung nine days on the world tree for knowledge of the runes. Her mother would journey to Oslo, separating from her family for three months, seeking artistic wisdom and deeper connection to her heritage. Different journeys, different sacrifices, but perhaps similar in their fundamental quest for understanding and growth.

As she made notes and sketched simple illustrations, Hilde found herself thinking about Mr. Olsen's revelation regarding her grandmother. How strange to think that if he had made a different choice all those years ago, her entire existence might have been altered. If he had followed her grandmother to Toronto, perhaps her mother would never have met her father. Perhaps Hilde herself would never have been born.

Life was full of such turning points, she realized—moments when choices were made that sent ripples through time, affecting not just the choosers but generations to come. Her parents were at such a turning point now, choosing to support each other's growth and development even when it required temporary separation. The outcome of that choice remained to be seen, but Hilde felt increasingly confident that it would strengthen rather than weaken their family bonds.

A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Come in," she called.

Her father entered, smiling at the scholarly disarray spread across her bed. "Working on your mythology project?"

"Yes," Hilde nodded. "I'm focusing on how the ancient stories connect to modern life. Like how Odin's journey for wisdom is kind of like Mom going to Oslo."

"That's an interesting parallel," Haden said, sitting on the edge of her bed. "Though I hope your mother doesn't have to hang from a tree for nine days or sacrifice an eye."

"The residency application process was probably painful enough," Hilde said seriously, making her father laugh.

"Probably," he agreed. "I came to say goodnight, but I see you're deep in your research. Don't stay up too late, okay? School tomorrow."

"I won't," Hilde promised. "Dad? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Are you really okay with Mom going to Oslo? You're not just saying you are because you think that's what you're supposed to say?"

Her father looked surprised by the question, then thoughtful. "I'm really okay with it," he said after a moment. "Not because I won't miss her—I will, terribly—but because I understand how important this is for her. And because I believe we've built something strong enough to withstand the separation."

"Like a well-designed building," Hilde suggested, knowing this metaphor would resonate with him.

"Exactly," he smiled. "Like a well-designed building that can flex with the wind rather than breaking under pressure."

"Mr. Olsen says you understand architecture as metaphor. That it's a rare and valuable gift."

"Does he now?" Her father looked pleased by this assessment. "Mr. Olsen is very generous with his insights."

"He also told me about him and Grandmother," Hilde added. "About how they loved each other but wanted different things from life."

Haden's eyebrows rose in surprise. "He told you about that? It's not something we've discussed much in the family."

"He said it's ancient history. Water under the bridge."

"I suppose it is, at this point. Your grandmother and grandfather had a good marriage, a good life together. And Mr. Olsen seems content with the path he chose."

"But they both wonder sometimes," Hilde said with certainty. "About the road not taken."

"Perhaps they do," her father acknowledged. "Most people have those moments of wondering. But wondering isn't the same as regretting."

"That's what Mr. Olsen said too."

"He's a wise man." Haden began helping her gather her books and notes, creating some order from the chaos spread across her bed. "Now, it really is time for sleep. You can continue your mythological explorations tomorrow."

As he tucked her in—a ritual he had recently resumed after years of leaving this task to her mother—Hilde studied his face in the soft light from her bedside lamp. He looked tired but peaceful, the tension that had marked his features during the difficult months now largely absent.

"Dad?" she said as he was about to turn off the lamp. "I'm glad you and Mom are talking again. Really talking."

"Me too, little völva," he smiled, using Mr. Olsen's nickname for her. "Me too."

After he left, Hilde lay in the darkness thinking about roads taken and not taken, about choices that shaped lives across generations, about the threads that connected her family through time and space. Outside her window, the spring night was alive with sounds—frogs calling from the marshy areas near the bay, a distant owl, the rustle of wind through newly budding trees.

Life was changing, as it always did with the turning seasons. Her mother would go to Oslo, seeking wisdom and artistic growth. Her father would remain in Thornbury, building both structures and family connections. Reyna would explore their musical heritage, finding her own voice within ancient traditions. And Hilde herself would continue learning from Mr. Olsen, collecting family stories, creating protective charms to help them all stay connected across the coming separation.

With these thoughts drifting through her mind, Hilde fell asleep, her rune stones arranged in a pattern of connection and protection on her bedside table, their ancient symbols catching the moonlight that filtered through her window.